


It Started in a Garden

by anniewritesaboutstars



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1500s France, Blushing Enjolras, Child Abuse, Cinderella Elements, Combeferre Knows Everything, Combeferre is a good advisor to Grantaire, Enjolras & Cosette Fauchelevent Friendship, Enjolras & Éponine Thénardier Friendship, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras and Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Courfeyrac BROTP I love their friendship so much, Enjolras is Danielle, Enjolras is a kickass servant, F/M, Grantaire is Henry, Grantaire thinks Enjolras is a nobleman, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire (Les Misérables), Prince Grantaire, Renaissance Era, Servant enjolras, Valjean is like a father to Enjolras, and gets the Prince of France to fall in love with him, ever after au, he frees slaves, please check the notes before each chapter for trigger warnings, rants about the monarchy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26350159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniewritesaboutstars/pseuds/anniewritesaboutstars
Summary: Orphaned at eight, Enjolras, known better as the "Cinders Fellow," has served under the household of his cruel stepparents the Thenardiers. Outspoken, headstrong, and in possession of some opinions of the monarchy he definitely should be keeping on the downlow, he's focused on one thing: watching his stepbrother marry the Prince so he can take charge of the Manor and fix things up for the better. Falling for the Prince is not part of the plan.Grantaire, the Prince of France, couldn't seem to care less about the state of things. But ever since a peasant lobbed an apple at his head while he was trying to steal a horse, that attitude seemed to be changing. Well maybe it isn't for the peasant as much as it is for the extraordinary Comte Alexandre Lamarque, whose passion and fierce opinions on change for the poor of society seems to be rivalled only by his beauty—but why does he look so familiar?The King has changed his mind—Grantaire will have a choice in who he marries. On the night of the grand ball, Grantaire must announce the man or woman he has chosen as his Prince or Princess consort.Or, an Ever After AU where Enjolras is Danielle, Grantaire is Prince Henry, and love blooms even in disguise.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 170
Kudos: 155





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back y'all.
> 
> I am pretty proud of this work, I can't wait to share the entire thing with you guys. I watched Ever After: A Cinderella Story (the Drew Barrymore movie) and I just thought the roles fit Enjolras and Grantaire so well, especially Enjolras as Danielle, the outspoken peasant who never shies away from speaking out against injustice. 
> 
> TW: This fic deals with elements of physical parental abuse. When we get to such scenes I will have some sort of an indicator in place for those who wish not to read it. 
> 
> Also note: This fic is HIGHLY inaccurate historically. It is set in a world where being LGBTQ+ is accepted, which, in actual 1500's France, would be inaccurate. However, I will make a note here acknowledging that those of the LGBTQ+ community have always been around, and the struggle (that unfortunately is still going on) for acceptance and rights is very much real, and to not mention so would be erasure, which is something that needs to be avoided. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. All characters belong to Les Miserables and most of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> If you've decided to give this fic a chance, thank you!
> 
> Here starts another seventeen week journey. Ready? Sweet. Let's do this.
> 
> -A

At the window sill, Enjolras impatiently swung his legs, still too small (and infuriatingly teased by Courfeyrac that he would forever remain this small) for his feet to reach the ground as he awaited the arrival of his Papa with his new step mother and siblings. He was quite excited; he had never known a mother before, and though Courfeyrac, a boy whose own servant parents had died at a young age and had been taken in by his Papa was basically a brother to him, he thought it would be fascinating to have one older than him and to have a sister. 

He couldn't wait. 

A carriage pulled up in front of the mansion, leaving Enjolras practically _buzzing_ in excitement. 

"Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac look!" He shook his best friend' shoulder. "He's back!" 

Courfeyrac gave him a playful shove. "Yeah, Enj, I can see that." 

Swiveling his head from side to side, he asked, "Where's Jehan?"

“In the kitchen. Says they're making something special with Cosette for your dad when he arrives.”

Enjolras scrunched his nose. “They’re seven. None of us can cook.”

“Maybe Jehan has magical powers,” Courfeyrac suggested, wiggling his eyebrows. Gasping, Enjolras clapped his hand over Courfeyrac’s mouth.

“Courf don’t say that!” he whispered. “What if someone heard you?”

Rolling his eyes, his best friend said dryly, “No one else is in here with us. Who could have heard. Besides, we both know that claims of witchcraft are stupid.” 

He huffed a breath. “That doesn’t stop the burnings.” Outside, the carriage door swung open. Tugging Courfeyrac by the sleeve, he urged him, “Come on! Let’s go, they’re here!”

Stumbling outside, he halted before the carriage, beside Pere Valjean. He reached out and held onto his hand.

“Pere Valjean,” the old man turned to look at him, “do you think she’ll like me?” he asked, referring to his new stepmother. 

Pere Valjean gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand lightly. “How could she not, Enjolras? Maybe as long as you don’t constantly spew your rather— _ah_ —radical beliefs around her.”

“If she doesn’t want to hear 'radical beliefs', then maybe she shouldn’t have married Papa,” he countered. In front of them, a man stepped out of the carriage, proud and tall with sparkling eyes that lit up when looking upon Enjolras.

“Papa!” Dashing forward, he threw his arms around his father’s middle, eliciting a chuckle. His father ran a hand through his curls.

“Enjolras! Look at you, just as I left you here.” He turned towards Courfeyrac. “And Courfeyrac! Promise me you two haven’t gotten into too much trouble around here.”

Courfeyrac grinned. “I can’t promise you anything, Monsieur, and anything Enjolras would say is probably a lie.” Enjolras glared at him. “You should ask Pere Valjean,” he suggested, jerking his head in the direction of the gardener. “But not Cosette. She would lie too.”

“What am I going to do with you children?” his father laughed. “Where is Jehan?”

“They’re cooking something special for you with Cosette!” he exclaimed. His Papa turned wide eyes towards the manor and let out a nervous chuckle.

“They are, are they?” Pere Valjean shrugged and smiled lightly. 

Enjolras opened his mouth to answer but was stopped short of the sight of a woman descending from the carriage above. Curly hair like the drawings of supposed witches, tall and hulking, she looked rather a terrifying sight as she came to stand by his Papa—her husband. Unconsciously, Enjolras burrowed behind Pere Valjean. He watched as she observed the manor, gaze like that of a greedy crow searching for something shiny. 

“Oh, it is absolutely charming, isn’t it?” she remarked, voice gruff. Behind her, from the carriage came two last figures, all closer to Enjolras’ height, a boy and a girl who looked to be about his age, the girl perhaps a little younger. They came to stand by their mother—his step mother—and eyed him curiously. 

Smiling, his Papa held out his arm for him. “Enjolras, may I present to you the newly titled Comtesse Thenardier and her two children: Montparnasse,” he gestured to the boy, “and Eponine,” he pointed to the girl. 

Enjolras peered up at his step mother and tried for a warm smile.

His feelings were not returned. 

Looking down at him with an upturned nose, she muttered a stiff, "Hello," seething with a glare his Papa seemed oblivious to. Enjolras shrunk back from under her gaze. Had he done something wrong? 

As if sensing his discomfort from the new members, the girl—Eponine—stepped forward closer to him and grasped him by the hand.

"Do you have any dolls to play with?" she demanded. 

Enjolras blinked. "What?"

"Dolls?" she repeated impatiently. "Do you have any dolls?" Under the intensity of her gaze, he flushed nervously.

"I don't. But Jehan and Cosette do," he added hastily at the look of her face. Tugging him by the hand, she started to pull him away into the manor, pausing only to take Courfeyrac too along with them.

"Well come on then." Before he entered, he turned to look once more at his step mother, who seemed to be tracking his movements with disdain in her eyes. His heart sunk. 

Why didn't she like him?

_______________________________________

On his bed, Enjolras carefully traced his fingers over the spine of the newest book his father had brought home for him. A thick volume written by a man of the name Thomas More, he gazed upon the book with fervent excitement. 

_“Utopia”_ he pronounced, repeating the name on the cover. His father smiled at him.

“It means paradise,” he explained. “It might be a little thick for an eight year old, but we could add it to our library.” 

Holding out the book, he asked eagerly, “Will you read some?” 

His father smiled tiredly. “It’s been a rather long day, Enjolras.” 

He nodded his head. He understood; his father had embarked on a long journey to bring his step family back, he needed rest now. 

“And you’re a husband now,” he added. 

“Yes, I’m a husband.” His father reached out and ruffled his hair. “But I’m a father before that. And before that I’m—”

“A person no greater nor any less than another,” he finished, reciting his father’s taught words. His Papa smiled. 

“Exactly.” He paused for a second before asking, “Do you like them? Your new step mother and siblings?”

Enjolras hesitated. Dare he tell him? Truthfully, he wasn’t really sure. He knew he liked Eponine enough, though the girl somewhat scared him, and he didn’t _not_ like Montparnasse. But his stepmother… 

There was something about his step mother that didn’t sit right with him. Her eyes seemed to darken with disdain whenever she looked upon him, and she seemed to treat him indifferently when his father wouldn’t look. In an eight year old’s vocabulary, this would be called being frightened of her. 

Of course, it _had_ only been one day, things could always turn around…

And yet, Enjolras couldn't shake that uneasy feeling he got when around his step mother, or when he noticed the way she looked at his Papa, as if he were a sum of money rather than a man.

However, glancing up into his tired father's eyes, Enjolras understood that his father needed reassurance and positive words, that the truth about his feelings were unnecessary sentiments that would be detrimental to his mental wellbeing.

So, plastering on a fake smile, he lied and said, "Yes, I love them."

His father let out a sigh of relief. "Good, good." He hesitated for a second before adding in, "Because I'm going to be heading over to Avignon in a fortnight."

_Heading over to Avignon in a fortnight?_

"But you just got back!" he protested.

"I know," his father sighed.

Enjolras didn't know what to do with this new piece of information. His Papa would be going away soon, leaving him in the house with… with his step mother. He couldn't do that! Enjolras needed him here!

"How long?" he demanded. 

His father ran a hand through his hair. "It's only…"

"Yes?"

His father winced. "...Three weeks."

Enjolras' tiny jaw dropped. "Three weeks? You can't leave me like this for three weeks!" 

"Enjolras," his father sighed once more, "it's important. The family I saw there… the conditions they're living in… I need to help them in some way."

"Then take me with you, I wanna help" he said stubbornly. His father chuckled.

"Maybe when you're older. I can't take you with me now, though I know you want to come. Perhaps once a few more years have passed I shall take all of you children—"

"Cosette too right—"

"—Yes Cosette too, if Pere Valjean will allow me to do so—to come help. Everyone should be of the spirit to take action, no matter how small the end result will be. You understand why I must go, right?" 

Biting his lip, Enjolras grumbled and then nodded, mostly annoyed because he knew his father was right; there were so many people in need of help, and his whining really held no merit when compared to the fact of all the good work his father did around the country. 

Laughing slightly, his Papa leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead before whispering _good night_ and exiting his room, leaving Enjolras to wonder how he would get through the next three weeks without his father to get his stepmother to warm up to him.

_______________________________________

“Don’t look so gloomy, Enjolras, I’ll be back in three weeks.” His father ruffled his hair as he lifted his case up into the carriage while he watched on in defeat. “You’ll have Pere Valjean with you, Courf, Jehan, Cosette… and of course, your new family.” 

Well that was just the problem, now wasn’t it? He would be left with his new family. Eponine was fine, in fact he would say he was becoming good friends. On the other hand, it seemed Montparnasse had taken rather coldly with him, choosing to avoid or ignore his presence when Enjolras attempted to make conversation. However, even that he could deal with.

It was his step mother that worried him. 

It had been two weeks since his father had brought her home, and yet, no matter what Enjolras tried, he simply could not get her to warm up to him. He couldn’t even coax a single smile from her; those seemed to be reserved only for her children. Cold, indifferent, and when his father had his back turned, perhaps maybe even a little cruel, Enjolras could not fathom what she had against him. Moreso, he began to wonder secretly—though he would chastise himself for questioning his father’s decisions—why his father had married this woman of all people. Their personalities did not seem to match at all. In fact, she hadn’t even come out to see him off; it was Enjolras, Pere Valjean, and the rest of the children—excluding Montparnasse.

His father stepped in the carriage and smiled down at him. “Bye Enjolras.”

With the crack of the whip, the carriage set off at an easy pace, exiting the gate and leaving Enjolras, though surrounded by a crowd of people, feeling lonelier than ever.

“Bye Papa,” he whispered.

He hoped his Papa would return soon.

_______________________________________

In a mirror of five weeks ago, Enjolras sat by the window sill impatiently swinging his legs as he anticipated the arrival of his father from his trip. The past three weeks have not been easy; with his father gone, his step mother had taken to treating him indifferently out in the open, rebuking him at the dinner table, scolding him during lessons until eventually she denied he even participate at all. It was about one week in that he decided he would rather sit for meals with Valjean and the rest of the servants, who normally would have sat with them at the grand table, but had been forced into a “servant’s quarter” under the eyes of his stepmother. And it took about one week for Enjolras to make the decision to gather up the courage and ask Courfeyrac if he could sleep with him in his room—like a sleepover—probing questions into the night as to what he could have possibly done wrong to offend his step mother. 

It had been a tough three weeks. But it was all over now, because his Papa was coming back now, and his Papa would defend him from his step mother and ask her to leave. All he had to do was wait a little longer by the window side. 

So he waited.

And waited.

And waited. 

Eventually, as the sun went down, Pere Valjean had to pull his screaming, struggling body away from the window side, carrying him up to his room and pulling him into a tight embrace meant to shield him away from the world as he cried and prayed and hoped his words were a lie. 

That night, he fell asleep tear-streaked in Courfeyrac’s arms dreaming of a man who stood so, so very close but happened to be just out of reach, fading a little more with each and every step Enjolras took towards him until all that remained was a wispy memory. 

_______________________________________

“ _Enjolras, I need to have a few words with you.”_

_“Alright, but make it quick, Papa could arrive any second now!”_

_“That's… that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Enjolras… you need to come to bed. Monsieur Lamarque will not be coming home.”_

_“He won’t be coming home today? But he promised! Has something happened to his carriage?”_

_“No Enjolras, when I say he’s not coming home, I mean… dear Lord I wonder how I can tell you this… Enjolras, you know your mother?”_

_“My mother? I wouldn’t say I know her. Why? What does this have to do with Papa?”_

_“Enjolras… do you know where your mother is right now?”_

_“In heaven!”_

_“That’s right, she's in heaven. And your father… Enjolras… your father… your father is with your mother now.”_

_“You mean he went to go visit her grave? That’s not fair! He could have taken me with him, I’ve never actually seen her grave, you know?”_

_“No Enjolras… he… how am I supposed to tell you this?”_

_“What are you muttering about?”_

_“... Enjolras, your father is with your mother now in heaven.”_

_“In heaven? Is that the name of the graveyard?”_

_“No, Enjolras, I… I mean he’s no longer in this world. He’s in heaven with your mother because he’s passed away into the grave.”_

_“...Into the grave? You mean where people go when they—when they die?”_

_“Yes, Enjolras, when they die.”_

_“Papa… Papa’s in the grave? He’s—he’s dead?”_

_“The house he was visiting—it had been a trap. There was no family in need of help, it was a nest of bandits. They brought him there, robbed him and then they—”_

_“You’re lying. He promised he would come back. Why would you say such a horrible thing?”_

_“No, Enjolras, please try and understand—”_

_“No! He promised he’d come back! He wouldn’t leave me with her! What a horrible thing for you to say! I hate you! Go away and let me wait here in peace!”_

_“Enjolras, please, it’s late, you need to get to bed, I know you’re in shock—”_

_“No! Leave me alone! Let go! Let go of me! He’s still coming home, I still have to wait for him here, he’ll be upset if I’m not there to greet him! Let go! Let go! Papa! Papa!”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chance encounters in the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> I know the chapters seem short right now, but they will get longer as we on. Also, a little note I forgot to mention last time: I'm aware that General Lamarque was a real historical figure, and though I have used his name and portrayed him as Enjolras' father in this fic, because it makes me uncomfortable to write fanfic about someone who actually once existed, I rather simply used his name rather than the actual figure himself (hence, as you'll see in future chapters, I've made his father's name Alexandre Lamarque rather than the actual name General Jean Maximilien Lamarque.) So, I guess, I'm not exactly sure how to explain this, but I separated the man from the name, if that makes sense. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who decided to give this story a try! Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

_10 years later_

This was the limit. Like it or not, his son would have to obey his command, no matter what he says about “love without marriage” or living under his Father’s “tyranny.” Really, he had indulged every one of his wishes, brought him the finest of wines from all over the globe, allowed each of his friends a private room near his, scoured the European kingdoms in search of every man or woman eligible of joining his hand in his in marriage, and yet he still _would not obey._ But it was over now; enough was enough. Pacing the floor, the King of France shared his thunderous sentiments with his wife, who lounged comfortably on her throne, looking almost bored (and why wouldn’t she? This was about the fiftieth time he had said such things in the past three days alone.)

“I signed a marriage treaty with the King of Spain! That boy will obey me or there will be hell to pay!” he roared. His wife sighed and rubbed at her temples, resisting the temptation to roll her eyes.

“Francis, he does not love her. How can you blame him?”

“This isn’t about love!” Queen Floreal raised an eyebrow.

“Then maybe it should be.” Francis’ eye twitched. 

“If Grantaire is ever to become king, he must accept his responsibilities, Floreal.” Rising from her seat, the Queen laid a gentle hand on her husband’s arm.

“A sapling cannot grow in the shadow of a mighty oak, Francis.” She gazed imploringly into his eyes. “He needs sunlight.” The King’s nostrils flared.

“A good whipping is what he needs.” Turning fast on his heels, he stormed out into the hall, down the stairs, and into the corridor leading to his son’s chambers, his wife close behind him.

“Really, Francis, can’t this wait until tomorrow?” 

“If I can’t sleep, neither shall he!” With great gusto, he wrenched the door open and approached the bed. “Grantaire wake up!”

The bed was empty.

Again.

Burying his head in his hands, he screamed as his wife soothingly patted his back. 

“Not again,” Floreal sighed. Eyes blazing, he lifted his head. 

“Call out the guard,” he ordered. Floreal looked at him hesitantly. 

“If I may, my lord, perhaps we would have better luck if we sent out his friends rather than the actual guard.” He looked at her flatly.

“If we were to send out his friends they would end up joining him in his escape plot. In fact—you know what? Send out Javert. He’ll find him.”

_______________________________________

Somewhere in the orchard, Enjolras caught the noise of a crow cawing, signalling the rising of the sun, and subsequently, the rise of the rest of the world from its slumber. No matter for him, though, considering he’d already been up for the past hour or so picking apples at the command of his step mother and step father. Normally, this sort of thing would be Cosette’s job, but seeing as how the poor girl had fallen into a sort of melancholic sadness ever since the Thenardiers had sold her Father to the royal court in lieu of the amounting taxes they owed, he allowed her proper rest and taken over most of her duties, setting out before dawn to gather the food. Back aching from the load of the basket of fruits he carried with him, he strained his arms to pick at one last apple. Turning it over in his fingers, he smiled; it was by far the ripest of them all, and surely if he just hid it within one of the pockets of the pitiful rags he was forced to wear, then perhaps it would go unnoticed by his stepparents and his stepbrother, Montparnasse. He could share it, rather, with his friends, servants who were treated worse than any other peasant on the land; after all, what made them so much different then the Thenardiers? They too were humans, equal in all regards, deserving of freedom just like anyone else, meant to live life free of oppression from anyone, whether that be the nobles and royals who ruled over the land he lived in, or the Thenardiers who ruled over the household he lived in. 

Sighing, he tucked the fruit away carefully in one of the more inconspicuous parts of his… well, you couldn’t really call it a shirt, now could you? He knew his ideas were far more radical than ought to be mentioned; it had earned his cheek a fair amount of stinging slaps from his step father and a few gentle scoldings from Pere Valjean who urged him to take care of his opinions and not to speak so freely in fear of harsher punishment from both his step parents or those devoted to the hierarchical structures kept in place. But the fact of the matter was that he couldn’t keep quiet, now could he? He had been given a voice for a reason; though he may simply be a peasant, that didn’t mean his voice was worth anything less than those noblemen who spent their time attending shows with their haughty attitudes, looking down upon the less fortunate with an air of superiority as they tip them exactly one sou, with which no one could really do anything. Yes, the nobility may hold power, but Enjolras believed that the common people were just as equal to the ruling class, even the King maybe. Those notions had to be kept quiet though; the divine right of the Kings was not to be questioned, especially not by peasants and serfs, though his opinions on the monarchs were well known by his friends, who would poke fun at his frustrations while secretly supporting him. It made him bristle knowing the King held so much power and yet he did not deign to do anything with it. So many peasant lives could be improved, the condition of France bettered if only he _did something about it._ Such a position, so much power, such ability to enact change, and yet the King frets over when his precious son will marry. 

_SNAP._

Enjolras shook himself from his musings as he caught sound of a snapping twig, followed by the fierce thundering of horse hooves on the ground. Nearly toppling over, he watched as a line of horses galloped past him, undoubtedly the King’s Guard. Vaguely, he wondered what had warranted the group to come out in search of their lands. 

“Come on now, you beast! Come on! Yah!” 

Whipping around, his eyes sought out the owner of the voice, his sight drawn to a hooded figure sat atop… his jaw dropped at the sheer audacity. That was his Papa’s horse! That man, or woman, whoever it was, was trying to steal his Papa’s horse! As the figure took off at a steady gallop, he shook his head and grabbed at an apple from his basket. 

“Not on my watch,” he muttered. “Thief!” he exclaimed, swinging his arm back. The figure whipped around at his words, face still hooded. “Thief! This will teach you to dare try and steal my Father’s horse!” With great effort, he heaved and lobbed the fruit at the man. As the fruit made impact, the figure—a man he could see now—toppled over with a great cry and landed splayed on the ground. Furious, Enjolras walked over to where the man sat, glaring down at him. How dare this man try and steal his Papa’s horse? 

The man scrambled to his feet, taking care not to remove his hood. “Forgive me,” he murmured in a low baritone. “Mine slipped his shoe. I have no choice.”

Enjolras scoffed. “And our choice is what? To just let you steal ours?” The man shook his head. 

“I was borrowing it.” 

“And you do that by arriving unannounced, quietly stealing into our orchard, and taking my Father’s horse without permission?” he asked incredulously, crossing his arms. “Get out of here before I wake the house. Who do you think you are?” he demanded. Stepping closer, the man raised his hand and removed his hood. 

Enjolras’ throat constricted. 

Before him stood the profile of a man he had heard dozens of girls and boys alike squeal and swoon over in the marketplace. Vivid green eyes, a strong jaw, wild raven curls. 

What was the Prince of France doing in their orchard? 

Royal protocol dictates that he should stupor into a bow, grovel for forgiveness, and lower his gaze, but Enjolras was never one for following such rules. He refused to bow in front of anyone (an unfortunate fact, in Cosette’s opinion, that often had her tending to screaming bruises left by his step mother or step father) royalty or not. However, he could not avoid the fact that speaking rudely to the Prince himself could end him in the stalks, or worse, and he’d rather not imagine Pere Valjean and his friends’ disappointed faces if that were to happen. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he clenched his jaw and spoke tightly. 

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I did not see you.” The Prince— _Prince Grantaire_ —gave him a crooked smile and cocked his head to the side as he took in the appalling state of his rags. 

“Your aim would suggest otherwise, Monsieur.” Enjolras jolted. No one—apart from Pere Valjean and his friends of course—had ever thought to address him with respect like that before. To the Thenardiers, he was simply a boy to be worked and treated worse even than a servant, and to everyone else, he was a peasant boy—known by Montparnasse’s favourite nickname for him the “Cinders Fellow”—whispered about behind hands, leered at with filthy gazes and spoken to by cruel mouths who saw nothing but someone to be treated like dirt or his step parents’ property. 

So why would the Prince of France care to address him with such a title, especially when his status was on such clear display? 

Shaking his head, he looked up into the Prince’s eyes. “I realize that my actions were reprehensible. What will my punishment be?” The Prince grinned wide.

“I would sooner wage war on Spain itself than punish such radiant beauty.” The Prince took his hand in his and lifted the back of his hand to his lips. Enjolras felt his breath catch as the man’s lips pressed a soft kiss to his skin. _Beauty?_ But he was dressed in filthy rags, his golden curls wild and unbrushed, his face no doubt still smeared in places with ash from his slumber in the deadened fire place where he was made to sleep. How could he call him beautiful? 

Wait, that wasn’t the point. Willing the blush in his cheeks to fade, he snatched his hand back and glared. 

“What are you here for?” he demanded, forgetting to mind his tone. The Prince quirked an eyebrow.

“A horse. I thought that much was clear. And perhaps for you not to speak word of this to anyone else.” Biting his lip, Enjolras mulled the situation over in his head. He already risked much by having not lowered into a bow after assaulting the Prince with an apple, and by speaking much more freely than protocol would dictate. It was a wonder why the Prince had not yet hauled him away to the dungeons yet (something that looked like he would be able to do quite easily if he so wished considering he outsized Enjolras quite visibly—muscled and bulky where Enjolras was lithe and slim, and towering where Enjolras stood a head shorter than him.) He couldn’t risk anymore; he ought just to let the Prince take the horse. On the other hand, it was _Papa’s_ horse… 

“Your Highness, we have other horses if you wish, younger, stronger ones…” he tried. Grantaire shook his head, seemingly unaware of the pleading tone in his voice. 

“I wish for nothing more than to be free of my gilded cage.” Inwardly, Enjolras scoffed. The Prince be trapped? How unlikely. While the peasant people struggle to make bread and feed themselves, he truly believed he had some sort of a plight? How privileged he must be to think like that. What could he possibly know of being trapped in a cage? Enjolras understood it well. Barely eighteen, he had been trapped living with the Thenardiers ever since his Papa died, forced to serve them as if he were lower than a servant rather than the son of the man his step mother had first married. Though he had just reached adulthood, he didn't really have much of an option to leave either; he was penniless and poor, and would have to leave with the clothes on his back, a horrible situation for a peasant to run into. Furthermore, it was no longer himself he looked after either; he couldn't just leave Courfeyrac, Jehan, Cosette, Pere Valjean, and Eponine back in that household, now could he? 

To force yourself to remain content with being servile to others, to take their constant abuses and rebukes all the while watching as you cannot protect your friends from the same fate, to have no other option but to stay—that was being trapped. What would the Prince know?

He was jolted out of his thoughts when he felt the Prince's rather large hand on his own smaller one. Once again taking Enjolras’ hand in his, he pressed another quick kiss (goddammit. why did he keep doing that—as if Enjolras’ cheeks weren’t already burning hot enough) and turned up his palm, dropping a jingling bag into his grasp. “For your silence.” Before he could open his mouth to respond, the Prince mounted his Papa’s horse and took off briskly into the thicket of the forest surrounding them, leaving Enjolras dumbfounded (and maybe just the slightest bit thrilled because the _Prince of France had kissed his hand twice and told him he was beautiful._ ) Remembering the bag in his hands, he quietly opened it up and peered into, gasping softly at what he saw. 

Piles and piles of gold francs. Real gold francs. He had only seen such coins in the hands of the Thenardiers, but never actually held them in his own palm. Carefully, he drew one out and passed it over his fingers, assuring himself that _yes, this is real._

He smiled. 

He knew exactly what he could do with this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Stick around for next week!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi at @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the step family (and the rest of the servants!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Bit of a short chapter for this week, but they'll start getting longer as the story progresses.
> 
> TW: (Non graphic) child abuse and mentions of previous abuse.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Eponine rolled her eyes as she watched her brother throw a tantrum. She may be the younger of the two, but it certainly didn't seem that way when one looked at how he behaved in comparison to her. 

"I asked for four-minute eggs, not four one-minute eggs!" he yelled as he pushed away his plate of eggs. "And where in God's name is our bread?" Eponine glared at him.

"Jehan is getting it, will you please calm down? Stop acting so ungrateful." Montparnasse rounded on her, opening his mouth to retort, but her Father beat him to it. 

"Eponine! Mind your manners when you speak to your brother!" Glaring at her, he snapped his fingers in the air. "He's absolutely right. These damned servants can't do anything right!" His snapping became more insistent. "Jehan! Bread! Now!" 

Her Mother approached the table. "Now, Monsieur, Eponine didn't mean it. She's probably just moody because she hasn't had breakfast yet. Right, darling?" Before she could open her mouth to tell her Mother that _no, actually it's because I'm sick of you treating my friends and my step brother like dirt,_ her Mother turned to address Montparnasse. "Montparnasse, darling, what did we say about tone?" _Not this again._

Her brother turned up his nose indignantly. "I was not shrill, I was resonant. A nobleman knows the difference." _You're about as much of a nobleman as Father is a fair Comte._

"I very much doubt your style of resonance would be permitted in the Royal Court," her Mother rebuked gruffly. Montparnasse crossed his arms and scowled. 

"Well I'm not going to the Royal Court, am I, Mother? No one is, except some Spanish pig they have the nerve to call a princess." Her Father looked up from his eggs. 

"Montparnasse, my boy, nothing in life is final." He speared an egg. "Not until you're dead, and even then, every Thenardier can bargain, even if it's with God. It's about the art of the deal." Swiveling his head around, his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw clenched. "Why is there no salt on this table?" he demanded. "Enjolras!" 

_Here we go again. Sorry, Enj._

__________________________________________________

Enjolras trudged into the kitchen just as he heard his step father call loudly for him. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and shouted back, "Coming!" He caught sight of Jehan and Cosette, who wrinkled her nose, and couldn't hold back his bright smile. 

"He's in one of his _moods_ today," she said before she looked up to glance at him. When she did, she paused and smiled back at him reflexively. "Did the sun rise in the west?" she teased as she took his hands in her own. "I haven't seen that smile in a long time." 

Jehan came up next to her and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Quite nice to see our boy bless us all with the light from that charming smile."

Beaming, he squeezed her hands gently. "Yes, Cosette, Jehan, today will be a great day—no, a beautiful day!" Cosette raised her brows playfully. 

"Really? And why is that?" Looking around to make sure they were alone, he carefully extracted the bag the Prince (who had kissed his hand and called him _Monsieur_ and said he was beautiful and… he was getting off topic here) had given him and opened it, revealing its inner contents discreetly to the two. Cosette gasped softly. 

"Enjolras," she murmured reverently. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Where did you get this?" He bit his lip and thought for a while before answering. Dare he tell the truth? Cosette and Jehan would have so many questions if he revealed that the Prince had given it to him, and he really couldn't afford it the time of day, knowing that those two would inevitably end up telling Courfeyrac and Eponine, too. Besides, he had, sort of, inadvertently promised the Prince he wouldn't tell anyone else about their chance encounter. 

"Just a merciful passerby," he answered, looking away from Cosette's narrowing eyes. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that I know what to do with them." Their eyes met and an understanding passed between them. Cosette blinked, her eyes watery with unshed tears. 

"Papa? You would do that for him?" 

Enjolras nodded. "He is as much a Father to me as he is to you, Cosette. Besides, no human life should be treated the way the Thenardiers treated him. If the Comte can sell Pere Valjean to pay his taxes, then these can certainly bring him home, though I am loath to have to 'purchase' him to bring him back." Sniffing, Cosette gave a shaky laugh before throwing her arms around him. 

"Thank you, Enjolras, thank you." Hugging her back lightly, he smiled and buried his head in her shoulder, taking a moment just for himself to revel in this momentary comfort before he would inevitably have to start his day. 

"This is our home, and I will not see it fall apart," he murmured. 

"We are waiting!" Sighing, he stepped away from Cosette, rolling his eyes and hiding away the bag in his pocket while grabbing the tray of bread and a bowl of salt, balancing each in one hand, a bowl of freshly cooked, properly done four-minute eggs balancing precariously on his head. Jehan looked at him sympathetically. 

"Take heed, Enjolras. If the Comte or Comtesse catches you with these, the coins are as good as theirs." 

Taking care not to spill anything, he marched out the kitchen and away into the dining room, where his step family was seated around the table awaiting their breakfast. Keeping the thought of Pere Valjean and his freedom in mind, he decided it would be best not to start off the morning with an argument that would sour his step parents’ mood. _Choose your fights wisely_ his Papa had once told him. 

Setting down the food on the table, the eggs specifically in front of his older step brother, he greeted them all. "Good morning Monsieur, Madame, Montparnasse, Eponine." He looked up at the last name, his step sister giving him an apologetic look. He gave her a small smile before staring resolutely back down at his twisting hands. "I trust you've all slept well." 

"What kept you?" his step father's reedy voice came from in front." Internally, he panicked, before covering it up quickly before anyone else could notice. 

"I fell off the ladder in the orchard, but I'm fine now," he lied quickly. When he dared a glance up he noticed his step father hadn't even sought to look at him. He released a quiet, relieved sigh at having not been caught. In his peripheral, he spotted Montparnasse gazing at him with thinly veiled disgust. 

"Someone's been reading in the fireplace again," he remarked. Enjolras' throat tightened. _That's because it's where you make me sleep._ "Look at you." Montparnasse's eyes skimmed his body. "Ash and soot everywhere." He tutted. 

His step mother turned her nose up at the sight of him. "Some people read because they cannot think for themselves," she said with an air of superiority. Biting his tongue, Enjolras forced himself to remain calm and forget about the scathing reply he would have made about how his step mother never thought for herself and simply danced to her husband's tunes. _Think about Pere Valjean._

"Why don't you sleep with the pigs ‘Cinder-Soot’ if you insist on smelling like them?"

He watched as Eponine glared at his step brother. "Montparnasse don’t." Her voice was weary. "At least not this early in the day." He smiled at her faintly before a bang on the table made him jump and cringe away slightly. 

"Eponine enough!" His step father's voice boomed across the room, and Enjolras panicked, vaguely wondering what he did wrong this time. On the inside, he really hoped that wherever his step father bruised him this time, it wouldn't be his face; people already stared at him when he would head to the marketplace, but it only got worse when he had a black eye or a bruised cheek on display. Conveniently, non-face bruises were easier to hide from the others, who he honestly thought worried themselves too much over him. "Come here, boy," his step father barked. Trying to hide the shaking in his hands, he hesitantly made his way towards him, careful to keep his gaze averted. "Your appearance… it does reflect a certain crudeness, doesn't it?" Clearly waiting for a reply, Enjolras simply nodded his head and fumbled with his hands. "What can I do to make you try Enjolras?" 

_Remember Pere Valjean,_ he heard his voice in his head

 _And yourself!_ The voices of Pere Valjean and his friends yelled in his brain worriedly as well. 

Swallowing nervously, he fumbled with his hands more. "I do try, step father, I do wish to please you," he stammered out as he repeated _Remember Pere Valjean_ in his head like a mantra to keep from saying something that would get him beaten and ignored, laying on the sickeningly sweet, fake words and sentiment thick. "Sometimes I sit on my own and try to think of what else I could do… how else I could act…"

His step mother snorted. "Oh please, stop with the nonsense, child," she waved dismissively. 

Daring a glance at his step father, he started cautiously: "Perhaps if we brought Pere Valjean back, I would not offend you so."

There was silence at the table after that. For a moment, Enjolras wondered if he should simply exit the room and try again later when he felt his cheek flare up with a stinging pain as a loud whip-like crack resounded in the room. Staggering back, Enjolras lifted a trembling hand to his red, throbbing cheek, blinking back burning tears as he glanced back up at his step father’s blazing eyes, his hand raised once again. Despite his pride, Enjolras cringed back. 

"You dare question my decisions, boy?” Silently, he shook his head, willing his panic to die down. Inside, his insides twisted with both fear and shame. For someone who believed in equality and freedom as ardently as he did, who believed the voice of the commoner was as powerful as that of royalty, he wondered why it was that as soon as he was faced with his step parents he found his voice failed him and his limbs trembled with indescribable terror. When left alone, he would always wonder why he couldn’t just summon the courage to look up into their faces and speak what was on his mind, why he always curled up in cowardice and froze in the present, why he was weak. 

“No, Monsieur,” he mumbled. His step father remained standing for a few tense moments before huffing a breath and sitting back down, looking upon Enjolras’ figure in hardly guised disgust. 

“It is your manner that offends, Enjolras. Throughout these hard times, we have sheltered you, clothed you, and cared for you. All that I ask in return is that you help us here without complaint. Is that such an ordinary request?” 

His throat tightened; he hated this argument, because somewhere under the layers of self dignity he clung to in order to keep himself going everyday, he knew that his step father was right. When his step mother remarried her first husband and brought him into the household scarcely two weeks after his Papa died, the man could have easily turned him out onto the streets to fend for himself at the age of eight in a world that was not always kind to people of his class. Despite having the power to do so, the man had allowed him to stay in the house, only under the condition that he help out. That wasn’t so bad, now was it? Even if it meant earning a couple of bruises every week when he spoke out of turn, it was still a whole lot better than what others worse off than him experienced. 

And yet, somewhere in his stubborn heart, he still had an inkling of a belief that people were meant to be treated better than this, favours or not. 

Realizing his step father was still waiting for an answer, he swallowed nervously and let out a quiet, “No, Monsieur.” 

“Good. We shall have no more talk of servants coming back. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Monsieur.” 

“Good. Leave us now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't draw for my life, so I'll write what I can't draw. There was really no need for having Enjolras carry so many plates considering that isn't something that happened in the movie, but I just really wanted to recreate that image from the original Disney's Cinderella movie where she balances a plate on each hand and one on her head, but on Enjolras. 
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire makes a new friend and Enjolras concocts a plan to get back Pere Valjean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> Short chapter for this week, but they'll get longer as we go on. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Grantaire was beginning to wonder when his life had gone wrong. He supposed it all started when he was born, but he couldn’t really blame himself for that now could he? No, it was probably that unfortunate night he had intoxicated himself with that wine from Italy, enough to drunkenly agree to his Father’s words of marrying the Spanish princess. But wait, it was his Father who had brought the wine that night and convinced him into taking one sip that quickly delved into many. So in reality, not even that was his fault. Curse his blasted Father and his morals. Become king? Bah! How was he to make a difference when there was so much suffering surrounding them? Better yet, how could he make a difference if his Father barely lets him out of the castle walls? Granted, yes his faith in Grantaire may be shattered from his multiple attempts to escape, but even so. An heir who believed in progress, in hope, in possibility, that’s what the kingdom needed, not an heir like Grantaire, who, once passionate himself, had felt that spark burn out a long time ago. 

There’s a reason his name isn’t much associated with the word resilience. 

As he urged his horse faster, he mulled over his plan in his head; he wasn’t escaping per se, but he thought it would be nice to see the world a little before shackling his life to the burden of the throne and the rule of his country. He was quite sorry, however, that he hadn’t been able to take any of his friends with him; it was simply too risky. He needed to travel quickly, and that would not be possible with five other men accompanying him. 

A shout pulled him from his reverie as he stumbled through the forest and into the middle of what looked like a robbery scene. 

“Oh no, there’s nothing there! There’s nothing there!” A man in round glasses pleaded with the robbers who held him down as the third rummaged through his carriage. “Please leave me alone!” When the man in the carriage emerged with a painting of some sort, the man’s eyes widened. “No, please don’t take that! Please not that!” What was so special about that painting? Grantaire, who dabbled in art himself, found himself intrigued. The man on the ground glanced up to see Grantaire hiding behind a thicket of trees in the forest. “Hey! Help me! Please!” At his words, the thieves turned their eyes onto Grantaire, then squinting at something far behind him. The lead’s eyes widened. 

Tucking the painting under his arm, he whistled and yelled out, “Get on the horses! It’s the King’s Guard!” 

Wait. The _King’s Guard?_

He whipped his head around to see his Father’s men close in pursuit behind him, and at the forefront leading them was… he cursed; it was Javert.

“Oh, I don’t believe this!” Gripping the reigns, he made to clear out quickly when he caught the voice of anxious muttering.

“The painting… no not the painting. God, he’s going to kill me.” The man in the glasses turned his eyes on him imploringly. “Please, that man, he’s getting away.” 

Grantaire felt conflicted. He wanted to help, really he did. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to spend so much time pouring your heart onto your canvas only to have your creation ripped out of your hands; as an artist, it pained him. However, the King’s Guard was almost upon him, and he had no time to waste. Setting his jaw, he told him “I’m sorry. The King’s Guard will assist you. I cannot.” He made to turn away when the man grabbed at the reigns of his horse. 

“Please, sir… it’s a question of my life.” In his peripheral, Grantaire spotted the King’s Guard drawing ever closer. In front of him, the thieves rode away faster, becoming mere specks in the horizon. He looked down upon this man; why should he help him? Why should he care about his painting? Time was running out, his Father’s men stalked closer. 

He looked back into the man’s eyes. 

Throwing his hands up in the air, he screamed and started his horse forward. “Hey you! Come back! Give that to me!” Catching up to the criminals in no time, he stooped low and snatched the painting back, proclaiming, “Got it!” Triumphantly, he allowed himself a smile before turning to see his Father’s men surrounding him. He sighed to himself. 

_So much for seeing the world._

________________________________________________________________

“Enjolras are you insane? Do you have any idea what the punishment is for servants who dress above their station? Five days, Enj! Five days in the stocks!” He looked at Courfeyrac over the top of the dressing screen. 

“Why?” he demanded. “Why should a peasant be punished just for dressing a certain way? What makes us so different from the nobility, Courf? Why should they only be allowed to dress in silks and satins?” 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “I’m not saying it’s right, Enj, I’m just saying what you’re doing is risky.” Enjolras huffed a breath. Ever since he told his best friend his idea to bring Pere Valjean back from the court, he had been arguing over whether it would work or not. It surprised Enjolras when his usually bold and daring friend vehemently shook his head at his suggestion. He supposed it was because of the way his cheek still flared red even after breakfast was over. While at the same time the concern was endearing, it was also frustrating; why didn’t anyone understand that he had to do this? It was his duty to make sure Pere Valjean got home safely; though he was only a servant, the people who he worked with were as good as a family he’d ever get, and he’d be damned if he let it break. 

Turning to his best friend, he looked at him flatly and said, “You would do the same for me, I know you.” 

“Me? Pretend to be a courtier? Prancing around like some nobleman in fancy clothes when I haven’t even been to the royal court to save you from being shipped off to the Americas? Well you’re right, I would! But that doesn’t change the fact that you’ve never seen the royal court either!” 

“Then I won’t be recognized! It’s so simple, Courf!” 

“Nothing about this is simple Enjolras! You’re going to get caught!” With a roll of his eyes, he stuck his arm out. 

“Hand me the doublet so I can be on my way,” he said as he absentmindedly played with his shirtsleeves. When he turned around, his face was met with the flying red doublet. Huffing a breath, he glared at his friend. “Very funny,” he deadpanned. 

“They’ll never buy it. You’re just too… passionate, Enjolras,” Courf remarked. 

“Unfortunately they’d never buy a poor servant with gold francs either,” he said bitterly. The fact that he would have to dress up as a _nobleman_ just so he could have the chance to achieve his goal raised his hackles. “I’m Pere Valjean’s only hope.” 

Courfeyrac sighed resignedly. “And what did you tell the Comte?” 

“I’m picking wildflowers.” Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. 

“And he believed you?” 

“After Montparnasse’s extensive fit of laughter, yes.” 

“That bastard.”

“It matters not, it only convinced my case. Can you still see him and Madame from here?” 

Courfeyrac craned his neck and peered through the window from where the first story of the estate could be seen. Nodding his head, he affirmed, “Yes. They’re buying brooches.” Enjolras’ eyes flared.

“Buying brooches?” he repeated incredulously. “Unbelievable! The Comte ignores the manor, blames us for his debt, and then pretends he _still_ has money to burn! The ways of the nobility will never cease to astound me.” Wobbling slightly in his clunky boots, he staggered out from behind the screen. “Don’t you dare laugh Courf! It’s not my fault these boots are so heavy and big!” he warned. Courfeyrac hid a smile behind his hand. 

“Well it’s quite a look on you; very regal, though it’s a shame you don’t have a proper collar.” Enjolras huffed a breath.

“I have no wish to dress as a nobleman. And better without the collar, they look as if they were meant to strangle rather than impress.”

“But the collar is a symbol of nobility. Besides, don’t fret about your boots, no one will even so much as glance at your feet.” Sighing, Enjolras looked down upon his outfit. A red doublet over a white linen shirt, pants tucked into boots, rich fabric against his skin and yet the oppression it represented allowed him no comfort. 

Courfeyrac stepped up close to him, taking the laces of the doublet in hand and lacing them through his shirt properly. Enjolras grimaced. “I feel stiff like the bark of a tree,” he murmured. Courfeyrac chuckled. 

“That’s how the nobles live, Enjolras. They trade comfort for style.” Pulling a hand through Enjolras’ hair, he stepped back to observe him for a moment before taking his hand. “If you are to play the part of a nobleman,” he reached behind him and grabbed a golden cloak, draping it over Enjolras’ shoulders, “you must act it.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I’m just a servant in some nice clothes,” he whispered. His best friend squeezed his shoulder gently. 

“Your status doesn’t determine your worth, Enj. I thought you were the one who kept telling me that.” Taking him by the hand, he led him towards the dressing table. “Now come, Jehan has managed to steal some white lead powder from the Comtesse’ private stash. Let’s get you decked up. Maybe I’ll even manage to get some rouge on those cheeks of yours.”

“You wouldn’t dare, Courf.” 

“Try me, Enj.”

________________________________________________________________

As the greenery of the forest passed by him, Grantaire sighed to himself and wondered whether it would be easier simply to resign himself to his fate. It sure would hurt a hell of a lot less, and it seemed that his Father's wishes were inevitable. Grantaire had never really been one for believing, after all. Cynicism meant that he was never truly disappointed in the outcome. Perhaps he should simply let things be.

A much more buried piece of his heart, the part that had once been filled with passion and belief, however, told him to keep hanging on and fighting, because maybe, just maybe, this fight was worth it. 

Trotting back up to the man in the glasses, he dismounted from his steed with a great leap and approached him, holding out the painting. The man let out a sigh of relief and smiled at him gratefully.

"Oh thank you!" 

Watching as Javert dismounted next to him, he grumbled out a quiet, "Don't mention it." The Captain of the King's Guard looked at him in pity. 

"Sire—"

" _Grantaire_ —"

"Sire, you promised." 

He sighed and gazed at the trees, both frustration and melancholy building within him. "I know, I know. I guess I lied." He shook his head. "I thought maybe I'd see the world one last time before I gave my life to this country." 

"If I may ask," he turned his face around to watch as the man in the glasses observed him with an expression of curiosity, "why did you stop?" 

Grantaire mulled it over in his head. Yes, why _did_ he stop? After all, the man and the painting had no bearing on him. If he had simply continued on his way, he may have even escaped. He thought for a while before responding, "I suppose I lack conviction." Turning to look at the man again, he appraised his features. "You seem to have it in spades. Besides, you did say it was a matter of life and death, and as an artist myself, I cannot pretend I do not know how attached one can get to their piece." 

"Oh, it was, Sire," the man seemed to have finally realized who he was, for he had begun addressing him in titles. "It's a great, prized painting." Unfurling the work, Grantaire was treated to quite an intriguing piece; in it sat a woman dressed in black, a picture of perfect elegance that would have been normal to the point of mundane were it not for the mysterious smile etched on her face. He stared at it quizzically, getting the distinct feeling that there was something more to it, something he ought to know, something the unnamed woman was trying to tell him. 

It was quite the remarkable portrait. 

"She laughs at me, Monsieur, as if she knows something I do not," he mused as he continued to analyze the painting in front of him. The man nodded. 

"The Lady Mona Lisa had many secrets. My lord simply painted one of them." Grantaire snapped his head up at the man's words. 

"Your lord?" he asked confusedly. Beside him, Javert nodded. 

"You must be da Vinci's apprentice, then," he said. 

_da Vinci?_ The _da Vinci?_

da Vinci's apprentice nodded. "I am. Please, call me Combeferre." Javert turned to him. 

"Signor da Vinci has been invited to the palace as the artist in residence. I assume he'll be arriving later?" Combeferre nodded as Grantaire stared on in shock. 

"da Vinci?" he asked incredulously. "As in _Leonardo da Vinci?"_ As in the man who had painted _The Last Supper?_ The man whose art Grantaire studied religiously? The most advanced man of their time? Truly? “Perfect,” he muttered under his breath. “I was on my way to Genoa and I find my salvation on the highway!” Turning to Combeferre, he gripped the man by the shoulders, staring him in the eyes seriously. “Monsieur, you play apprentice to the founder of advanced thinking, and my Father is the king of backwards thinking. Do you think you could talk him into the present? Tell him that we no longer live in the past; this is the 1500’s, and my Father would do well to understand that the future is now.” Combeferre looked at him in confusion.

“Uhh…” Javert took pity on the boy and explained for him as he trudged off towards his horse.

“Prince Grantaire suffers from an arranged marriage, among other things, Monsieur. Now come, we must make haste for the castle.”

________________________________________________________________

The manor Grantaire had taken the horse from only mere hours appeared back in view as he rode closer once more towards it. Though he was the Prince, and therefore was perfectly eligible to keep the horse he currently sat astride on, he always imagined himself a man who would keep his promises, even if that promise was to a peasant servant. In the back of his head, Grantaire wondered whether he would again see the peasant servant who glowed golden despite the rags he dressed himself in. 

Halting in front of the main door of the manor, he waited patiently until an older woman dressed in heavy silks, no doubt the Comtesse stepped out, gasping and throwing herself into a bow when catching sight of him. Subtly rolling his eyes, he watched as the woman straightened and looked up. 

“Your Highness!” she croaked out in her gruff voice. “What a pleasant surprise! To what do we owe this great honour?” 

Dismounting from the horse with a great leap, he replied, “I’m returning your horse, Comtesse.” The woman stared quizzically at the animal. 

“Oh? Was it missing?” she asked. 

He nodded. “Yes, I took the liberty of borrowing it earlier. I’m afraid I scared your servant off,” he mused, mind flashing to the way the boy’s cheeks flushed when he pressed a kiss to his hand. “A young man with quite a good arm, actually.” Subconsciously, he rubbed at his arm. When he glanced back at the Comtesse, he was surprised to see her eyes looked panicked.

“He’s mute,” she blurted out. 

_Mute?_ Huh. That wasn’t right. From what Grantaire remembered, he was quite capable in his speaking abilities, fierce, even. 

“Really?” he said, narrowing his eyes. “He spoke perfectly fine to me. Quite forcefully, even.” The woman panicked for a second more before painfully morphing her face into an expression of nonchalance. 

“Well it comes and goes,” she waved a hand dismissively. “But, as always, Your Highness is welcome to anything he wishes. Anything at all.” A gasp from inside the house had him turning his head as a young man with jet black hair and a rose brooch pinned on his doublet stumbled out and sank into a low bow. 

_Not this again._

“Oh, Montparnasse, there you are!” the woman breathed out. “Where’s your sister?” 

“Inside the house, Mother,” he replied, still in his bow. Grantaire rolled his eyes once more.

“Eponine!” the Mother called out. When there was no reply, she raised her voice. “Eponine!” 

A girl this time sauntered out the door, rolling her eyes as she came to a stop in front of him. The Mother subtly elbowed her in the side and inconspicuously gritted out, “Bow in front of His Highness.” With a great sigh, the girl sank into a two second bow before righting herself again. Grantaire smiled to himself. He liked this girl.

Meanwhile, on the Mother’s left, the man was only just rising up from his bow. The Mother cleared her throat.

“Your Highness, may I present my children, Montparnasse of the House of Thénardier, and Eponine of the House of Thénardier.” 

Nodding his head, he replied, “You may. Your children are both quite stunning,” he recited in the monotonous way he would whenever any noblemen was presented with the chance to present their kids in hopes of a possible marriage alliance. In his mind, he shook his head at the thought. People never learned from the way he spoke, did they?

“We’re so looking forward to celebrating the engagement to your own Spanish rose,” the Mother said, spoiling his mood further. 

Sighing, he looked away and muttered more to himself, “Yes, well, there have been several new developments with regards to Spain,” he lied. 

“And I trust these developments are for the best?”

He looked at her thoughtfully before answering. “Let us hope so.” Kissing the hands of both the boy and the girl, who looked rather disgruntled at the display, he turned and mounted the spare steed, calling out a quick “Have a good day, Comtesse!” before galloping away towards the castle once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the story will pick up more next week.
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter at the Court of Royals leads to a simple lie that may lead to so much more. Enjolras fears no royal, Grantaire can't stop thinking of a certain nobleman, and Pere Valjean always knows everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dear readers!
> 
> This was the chapter I had been waiting to write when I first started writing this fic. The whole "If you suffer your people to be ill-educated" quote but Enjolras saying it to Grantaire was the reason why I wrote this, I'm so glad I finally got here. I hope you enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Enjolras had thought that if he were dressed as a nobleman, it would perhaps make walking through the bustling town easier, but as he walked along desperately trying to get through the crowds to where he imagined Pere Valjean would likely be, he found that he couldn't have been more wrong. Sure every once in a while a guardsman would call out "Make way for the good Monsieur!" but that would only allow him easy pass for a few seconds before he felt himself be swallowed up by the crowd once more.

Rising on his toes in his heavy boots, he scanned the premises for any sign of Pere Valjean. 

"Come on, move it!" 

Whipping his head around, he caught sight of a man keeping pace with a cart full of… 

Enjolras felt disgusted. The cart was full of men, all chained up and stuffed together like livestock. His veins coursed with rage. The absolute audacity people had to treat other human beings like this… how could they? How could they look into another's eyes, look through the windows to the human soul, see another life as equal as their own, and still treat them like lesser beings simply based on the family and status they were born into? The whole matter perplexed him so. 

Out of the throng of men he could make out a distinctly muscular figure with stark white hair. _Pere Valjean._

"Lord give me strength." 

Straightening his back, he held his head up high as he approached the servant trader, masking his anxiety and doing his best to appear like the regal noblemen he had occasionally served back at the manor from time to time visits did. Clearing his throat, he sought out the attention of the man in front of him.

"I wish to address the issue of this gentleman," he pointed out Pere Valjean, who caught sight of him and subtly shook his head at him as if to say _no._ Silently, he had a war of words with the old man, in the end of which he turned away to try and ignore his protestations to leave him, and that it was fine. "He is my servant and I am here to pay the debt against him." The servant trader hardly dignified him a glance. 

“You’re too late,” he replied gruffly, “he’s already paid for.” 

_Paid for? No!_

Trying his best not to let his underlying panic show, he drew out his bag of coins and jingled it slightly. 

"I can pay you gold francs," he offered hopefully, all the while hating himself for it. The servant trader looked at him flatly.

"You can have me for gold francs." Enjolras drew back and cringed. The man slapped the cage, causing it to rattle and yelled out, "Drive on!" 

_No!_ His chances were slipping away! 

Mustering up every ounce of courage he had in his body, he stared fiercely at the servant trader as he rushed forward to block the way of the cart.

"I demand you release him at once or I shall… I shall…" he hesitated for a moment before speaking on, "I shall take this matter before the King!" 

And inwardly, Enjolras thought, _why shouldn't I?_ It was the King's duty, after all, to look over his citizens fairly, and that included listening to the words of a peasant boy and caring for the life of an old serf. 

Snorting, the servant trader raised an eyebrow at him and explained, "The King is the one who sold him. He's now the property of Cartier." 

His words stirred outrage in Enjolras. _Property?_ How dare that man look at another human being, another person, another one of his flesh-and-blood-brothers and deem him property rather than a human who deserved equal rights and freedoms just like him? Enjolras felt nothing but disgust and loathing for this man. To treat these men like this… it was shameful to think how far the nobility could stoop. He made as much clear in his words.

"He's not property at all, you ill-mannered tub of guts!" he exclaimed furiously. "Do you honestly think it right to chain people as if they were lesser than cattle? He is a human being, fully deserving of rights and freedoms, and I demand you release him at once!" Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot Pere Valjean shaking his head frantically.

"Get out of my way!" Growling, the servant trader gave him a rather hard push. Enjolras, lithe and skinny, stumbled far back. He felt himself fall until he hit something solid and warm. 

Something that was moving with what felt like the rise and fall of a man's breath. 

A pair of strong arms wound itself around his torso, steadying his body back against a man's _chest._

"How dare you push a man like so?" 

_No._

Of all scenarios that he had run through with Courfeyrac of what could possibly go wrong during his little scheme, never had Enjolras imagined this. There was no planning on what to do if something like this occurred, and yet somehow Enjolras found himself here—cradled against _Prince Grantaire's chest_ as he attempted to masquerade as a noble in the royal court—confronted by Prince Grantaire who had already seen him once before. 

Enjolras prayed that the white powder lead dusted over his face and the rouge Courfeyrac had blended on while Cosette and Jehan pinned his fighting body down provided even the barest of disguise for his looks. 

In front of him, the servant trader paled. "Your Highness! F-forgive me, Sire, I meant no disrespect. I was just following orders. It's my job to take these thieves to the coast." Fury once again igniting, Enjolras found it in himself that he didn't quite care if the Prince recognized him or not; this man was wrong, his morals were wrong, his beliefs were wrong, and Enjolras felt it was his duty to let both him and the Prince know exactly why, his own life be damned. Squirming out of the Prince's arms, (which were warm and strong and protective and felt so very safe and… where was he going with this?) he turned around to look the Prince straight in the eyes. Immediately, the Prince's eyebrows furrowed upon seeing him, and he squinted at him as if there was something familiar about Enjolras, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. He breathed out a sigh of relief; it seemed the makeup had worked after all. That, or he had already forgotten about his encounter with him previously (a thought that, for some odd reason Enjolras could not understand, saddened him a bit.) 

Clearing his throat, he said, "A servant is not a thief, Your Highness… and those who are cannot help themselves," he stated with utmost conviction. 

Prince Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Really? Well then by all means, do enlighten us."

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. The Prince wanted to hear him out? That was… surprising. Pleasantly surprising, actually. Enjolras had always imagined the Prince to be rather spoiled and arrogant. He had heard many tales of his taste for expensive wines and liquors, and his preference for more… intimate adventures as opposed to overseeing the affairs of statecraft and the plight of the people. Never had he thought that he would actually listen to the plea for an old serf's life. 

That changed Enjolras' opinion of the man, even if it was just by a bit.

After so many late nights spent huddled up in his makeshift bed in the fireplace reading—no devouring—his Father's left behind books of philosophy, Enjolras finally found an opportunity to employ what he learned from his texts. Seizing the given moment, he began to passionately rant. "If you suffer your people to be ill-educated and their manners to be corrupted from infancy, then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, then what else is to be concluded, Sire, but that you first make thieves and then punish them?" he challenged. 

Prince Grantaire stared at him for a moment more before turning to the servant trader. "There you have it then," he said. With a wave of his hand, he ordered, "Release him." 

The servant trader's eyes darted between the cart and the Prince uneasily. "But Sire…"

"I said release him," Prince Grantaire repeated in a steely tone. With a bow, the man turned to the cart and unlocked the door, letting Pere Valjean out and unshackling his wrists. Enjolras, in the meantime, continued to stare at the Prince, stunned. He had… listened to him. He had actually listened to him, and that too about a peasant's life. The Prince had cared for the life of a man that in no way affected the state of his own luxuries. 

How strange.

The Prince caught him staring and flashed him a charming smile; Enjolras felt himself blush even darker with the addition of the rouge on his cheeks. 

He was shaken out of his reverie when Pere Valjean came up beside him, smiling. “I thought I was looking at your Father,” he whispered, making Enjolras beam with pride. 

Leaning closer, he whispered back, “Meet me at the bridge.” Raising his voice, he called out in a commanding tone, “Prepare the horses! We will leave at once!” Then, sparing a glance he hoped would be the last time (or did he—a part of him wasn’t very sure), he bowed and said to the Prince, “I thank you, Your Highness.” Turning quick on his heel, he began to walk briskly away towards the stables, head held high, heart soaring from his most recent victory.

“Wait!” the Prince jogged up next to him. The man squinted at him as he kept pace with his walking. “Do I know you?” he asked. 

Enjolras felt a stab of panic run through him. He was so close to the gates, he was almost there! He couldn’t be caught now! As calmly as he could, he replied nonchalantly, “I do not believe so, Your Highness.” Staring resolutely in front of him, he could almost feel the Prince’s calculating gaze burn his figure. 

“Your eyes…" he started, "they look… familiar." Quiet for a moment, he continued, "That’s… strange,” he remarked. “I could have sworn I knew every courtier in the province. Although unwillingly,” he added at the end, earning a small tug on Enjolras’ lips.

“Oh… I’m… um… visiting a cousin?” he explained uncertainly. 

“Who?” 

Enjolras’ throat went dry. _Quick! Think of something!_

“My cousin.” 

“Yes, you said that. Which one?”

“The only one I have, Sire.” From beside him, the Prince let out a gruff chuckle. 

“You surely are a clever one. Are you being coy on purpose or do you actually refuse to tell me your name?” He dared a look at the Prince, who was watching him with raised brows and an amused smile. 

“No and yes,” he answered honestly. The Prince laughed again. 

“Alright, fair enough. Then, pray, tell me your _cousin’s_ name so that I may call upon _him_ to learn who you are. Anyone who can quote Thomas More is well worth the effort.” 

Enjolras stopped short, turning to the Prince and furrowing his eyebrows. “You’ve read _Utopia?_ ” he asked in slight disbelief, forgetting to employ the use of proper titles. 

The Prince chuckled. “You seem reluctant to give me credit, Monsieur. You realize I have read Machiavelli and Erasmus too?” 

“And you used it to further enhance your abilities as Prince, then?’ Enjolras asked, just the slightest bit impressed. The man was much more different than he had first imagined. He’s read the books of the Western philosophers? 

“I must profess I found Thomas More’s words rather dull,” the Prince explained. “I’d rather not read of the plight of the everyday. I prefer to seek my solace in tales of adventure and action.” Enjolras’ lips thinned. 

Clenching his jaw, he responded in a hard tone, “You are the Prince of France. The plight of the everyday should be your primary concern. Your duty is to ensure the people, be they peasant or noble, are well looked after. A country’s character is defined by it’s everyday plight, it’s everyday rustics. They are the legs you stand on. That position demands respect.” 

Stepping closer, Prince Grantaire leaned down to meet his face on the same level as he tilted his head and asked, “Am I to understand you find me arrogant? You realize there is only so much I can do as Prince? I have no control over how the feudal masters treat their serfs.” 

“But you can build a system where peasants are no longer dependent on the feudal lords to survive! You can build up an economy based on business and trade, where each man has an equal opportunity to make his own in life! The betterment of France is in your hands, the words are in your books, and yet you pay no heed to them!”

The Prince snorted. “Alright. Say I do as you tell me to. Who’s to say the next King will follow the same ways as I? Who’s to say the serfs will even leave their lords for some off-chance opportunity at freedom when they already have security within their grasp? The people will not easily accept change, Monsieur.” 

Enjolras looked at him flatly. “The people are always ready for change. Sometimes a single idea is powerful enough to change the world we live in. Freedom is not a topic of debate; it is a right, and the people know it just as well. It all depends on whether the people who hold society’s greatest power use it to advocate for that change or to sit around, believing their cynical viewpoints are superior to the strength of the common man.”

Prince Grantaire grinned at him. “So you _do_ find me arrogant. Now what can I do to change that opinion?”

“Maybe instead of simply freeing just one man, you could at the very least take a look at all those still trapped in their cage,” he replied shortly, resuming his walking with a new sort of fierceness in his gait.

“Please!” the Prince jogged in front of his path and encapsulated one of his hands in both of his own, caressing it with a tenderness that made Enjolras shiver despite the sweltering heat of the town. “I beg of you. A name. Any name.” 

Biting his lip, he mulled over the situation in his head. Even if he wanted, Enjolras _had no name_ to give him (and oh his mind denied this vehemently, but he did want to give it—the conversation he had just had with the Prince—however cynical and infuriating it was—fascinated him. He found himself intrigued, and craved to learn and discuss more with the Prince that he never imagined had a sharp mind.) There was only one name he could think of, but… Dare he give it?

“I’m afraid,” he started off uncertainly, hesitating before ploughing on, “the only name I can leave you with is… Comte Alexandre Lamarque.”

Prince Grantaire smiled dazzlingly. “Now was that so hard?” he teased as he raised his hand to press a kiss to its back. 

Enjolras flushed. 

________________________________________________________

Grantaire racked his brain, trying every possibility in his mind. He didn't believe in much, but this he did know: the nobleman with whom he had a fiery exchange of words with regarding… well, regarding pretty much everything that seemed to be swirling around in the boy's mind—was very familiar, and Grantaire knew for certain that he had seen the boy somewhere before. Where? That's what he was still, after hours spent holed up in his room, trying to figure out.

And so, Grantaire did what he did best when it came to situations like these: he painted. 

As he added the final brushstroke on the fiercely passionate eyes of the Comte, he stepped back to analyze his work. Even in his painting, the nobleman—Comte Alexandre Lamarque, supposedly—glowed a fiery golden like the god Apollo who the Greeks had worshipped. He seemed to be entirely sharp; his face was chiselled, his eyes looked as if they could cut glass when angered, and his words, he knew from experience, had quite the edge to them. And yet, there seemed to be something extraordinarily soft and delicate about him at the same time—his rosy cheeks were prone to easy colouring and his curls looked as if they would be feather light to the touch. 

His hands were the one thing that was different, however. When he had taken them in his own, Grantaire noticed one defining trait about them: they were rough and calloused, indicating signs of hard labour.

What kind of a Comte worked such jobs? 

The strangest thing, however, was the fact that Grantaire had the distinct feeling that he had kissed that same hand before, despite the fact that he had never heard of a Comte Alexandre Lamarque before… 

Perhaps he was just imagining things.

He looked once more upon his painting. 

And yet… 

"Oh! Grantaire you're back!" 

Shaking out of his musings, Grantaire turned to where his Mother stood by the door. The side of his mouth quirked up. 

" _Bonjour, Maman_ ," he greeted. His Mother looked at him and the state of his chambers before sighing to herself. 

"Grantaire what are we going to do with you?" _Maybe not force me into some temporary alliance with Spain that will only last a few decades._ "The King would like a word with you. Several actually." 

Grantaire smiled tightly. "He usually does." Sighing, he stood up and raked a hand through his dense curls, walking to join his Mother out in the hallway. Just as he made to exit the room, he turned one last time to glance at the painting. What was so familiar about the Comte…? 

He shook his head and stepped out to have a little chat with his Father.

Oh joy.

________________________________________________________

“Pere Valjean you can’t really have expected me to leave you to the hands of Cartier!” 

“Child, what you did was very dangerous. Suppose you had been caught? All for what? For me? My life isn’t worth it.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. He couldn’t believe this; he really expected better of Pere Valjean than to believe he was worth less than the rest just because he was old and poor. 

As he walked alongside him through the fields, having left the horses behind, he replied, “Of course it is. Just because you’re a serf doesn’t mean you don’t mean anything.” Pere Valjean let out a frustrated groan. 

“Enjolras, my life is meaningless compared to your’s and the rest of the children. You need to understand the weighing of worth.” 

“Every human life is worth something; no one is more or less important than another, regardless of class. It was my duty to bring you back; I promised Cosette, and I promised you before you left. I simply made good on my word.” He glanced at Pere Valjean who stared at him flatly.

“You will never listen, will you?” Enjolras smiled. 

“Never.” 

A few beats of silence passed between the two men, Pere Valjean seemingly lost in the thoughts he so often mused about that the rest would eagerly listen to when given the chance, Enjolras lost in his own thoughts about a man with a crooked smile who he thought he had known enough about for him to judge harshly, a man who had surprised him by speaking of Machiavelli and Erasmus, who set the life of a serf free, who listened to what he had to say without disregarding him as a dreamer, who kissed his hand and cared enough to insist on learning his name… 

“So what was that about you and the Prince?” As if he could read his mind, Pere Valjean hit the nail right on the head. Enjolras whipped his head to the side to look at him. 

“What about him?” he asked, deliberately avoiding the inclusion of his own name in close association with the Prince’s. Pere Valjean gave him a knowing smile. 

“Well the Prince did seem quite… enraptured in your conversation… particularly in you,” he said nonchalantly. Enjolras looked away towards the manor appearing in the distance. 

“He was just making polite conversation that’s all. Nothing special.” Pere Valjean raised an eyebrow at him, still smiling. 

“And he does that by kissing your hand?” Enjolras face flamed at his words and he subconsciously stroked at the skin of his hand where the Prince had pressed his lips, the memory of the man’s hand on his stirring something deep in his stomach. But what he had done, it wasn’t anything special, was it? That was simply royal protocol, it wasn’t as if the Prince had done something extraordinarily wonderful or intimate. Pere Valjean was reading way too much into this. 

“That’s just royal etiquette. He does that with everyone.” Pere Valjean was still smiling, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, it annoyed Enjolras.

“What? Why are you smiling?” he demanded. Pere Valjean simply continued to smile. 

“Nothing. I just think that maybe the Prince wasn’t the only one enraptured in your conversation.”

Oh no. This was not happening. Pere Valjean had it all wrong. Absolutely nothing was like that.

Staring him straight in the eye, he informed him flatly, “The Prince is a self conceited man who does not care for the people of this land and makes no good use of the power and privilege bestowed upon him. He is arrogant, self centered, and holds no beliefs, and I am glad that I will not have to see him again.”

(He wasn’t. Quite the contrary, but let alone Pere Valjean, he wasn’t even going to admit that to himself.)

As the manor came into view, Enjolras added quietly to himself, “Besides. He only paid attention to me because he thought I was a nobleman. Without these clothes, I’m no one to him.” Pere Valjean gave him a look of pity and opened his mouth to say something when he was cut off by a flurry of long blond hair. 

“PAPA!” 

Pere Valjean chuckled as Cosette practically flew into his arms, clutching tight to his figure.

“Papa, oh thank God! Thank God! Thank God!” Enjolras smiled as he watched, turning to head into the manor to change before the Comte or Comtesse could catch him in such clothing when a hand wrapped around his wrist, pulling him into Cosette and Pere Valjean’s hug. Yelping, he found himself tangled up in a mess of Cosette and Pere Valjean’s arms. “Hang on there!” she snorted. “God isn’t the only one I have to thank for this miracle.”

He smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King strikes a compromise with Grantaire and Enjolras has a change of heart regarding the Prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!
> 
> TW: Child abuse
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

_Fifty-two._

That was the number of times Grantaire fought the same argument with his Father. Fifty-two bloody times and the man still wouldn't listen. And even worse, this time the man was trying to _ground him,_ as if he were some seven year old little boy.

"You, sir, are restricted to the grounds!" his Father ordered. Grantaire stared at him in incredulous disbelief. 

"Are you seriously trying to put me under house arrest?" he demanded. The King whirled around to meet his eyes.

"Do not mock me, boy, for I am in a foul disposition and I _will_ have my way," his Father warned. 

"Or what?" he challenged. "You'll send me to the Americas like some criminal? All for the sake of your stupid contract. You really think the treaty will last, Father?" 

"You are the Crown Prince of France!" his Father roared. 

"And it is my life!" he shouted back, throwing his hands up in frustration. 

His Mother rose from where she was seated in the middle, clearly having had enough. Putting a hand on his Father's shoulder, Grantaire watched as she commanded him to take a deep breath. 

"Francis, sit down before you give yourself a stroke," she ordered. Shaking her head, she rubbed at her temples as she muttered, "Really, you two." Turning to him, she gave him a sympathetic smile. "Grantaire, sweetheart, you were born to privilege, and with that comes specific obligations you must attend to," she explained gently. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes. "Forgive me Mother, but marriage to a complete stranger never made anyone in this room very happy." 

His Father rose from his seat, his eyes cold with icy fury. "Listen here Grantaire," he started out dangerously quiet, "marry Musichetta by the next full moon or I will strike at you in any way I can." _An ultimatum? Fine. I can work with that._

"What's it to be then, Father?" he asked mockingly. "Hot oil or the rack?" 

"I will simply deny you the crown… and… live forever!" Grantaire snorted. 

"Amazing. Agreed. I don't want it." Turning swiftly on his heels, he made his way out the door and into the hallway. 

His Father's choked voice of rage followed. "Where do you think you're going?" 

Barely sparing a glance, he spat out, "To see Bahorel and the rest!" 

Behind him, his Father let out a frustrated scream as he turned to his Mother and yelled, "He's your son!"

________________________________________________________

As Enjolras sat scrubbing at the floor, he craned his neck at the sound of footsteps approaching him. He turned to snap at Montparnasse to keep off while he was cleaning, but stopped short at the smirk playing on the man's lips. 

"Somebody's in trouble," he called out in a sing-song voice. Enjolras frowned. 

"What do you mean?" he asked as Eponine came running into the room. _Great._ Though he knew she didn't mean it, she had ended up tracking mud all over the floor he had just spent the last hour scrubbing. Now he'd have to clean it again. 

"Enjolras," she said in a frantic voice, "you should probably go find Jehan and work out in the fields or someplace else." 

"What?" he asked, confused. "Why?" 

Eponine simply continued to stare at him anxiously. "It's Mother, she's not in the greatest of moods—"

"ENJOLRAS!" 

He scrambled up quickly as his step mother made her way into the room, her strides quick and furious. This was evidently not good. "Madame, what's wro—" 

She raised a hand and struck him across the face, his cheek blooming a vicious red as his body was sent sprawling onto the floor. 

"You stupid boy!" she hissed. "How dare you do this to me? To Montparnasse? To Eponine?" 

"He didn't do anything to me, quit overreacting—"

"Quiet, sister, let her talk." 

"The sight of you makes me sick! This is deceitfulness, Enjolras, and I will not have it in this house." Blinking back stinging tears, he raised his head to look at her, unaware of what the hell she was going on about. 

"I don't understand," he said, hating himself for the slight tremor evident in his voice as he forced himself back onto his shaking legs. "What did I do?" 

Montparnasse tilted his head at him, his dark eyes glittering with malice. "Think hard, Enjolras, think really hard." Behind his step brother, Eponine winced and subtly made the motion of a galloping horse. Everything suddenly clicked in place, and in the tiny part of his brain that wasn't completely hazy with the pain radiating off his face, he felt the slightest bit more impressed with the Prince for keeping good on his word of _borrowing_ his Papa's horse instead of simply taking it. 

"Is this about Prince Grantaire stealing our horse in the morning?" he ventured. His step mother seethed. 

"Yes, Enjolras. And that would explain why he returned it this afternoon. How dare you let him surprise us like that?" She raised her hand again and Enjolras flinched back. 

"I'm sorry!" he cried, knowing he'd hate himself for how he sounded later. 

His step mother huffed a breath and let her arm drop. "Well, lucky for you Montparnasse and Eponine turned in a beautiful performance." Behind her, Eponine rolled her eyes. "The Prince was absolutely enticed by the both of them." 

"I wouldn't be surprised if the Prince dropped by again," Montparnasse said smugly. 

"Now come, I must know exactly what was said. The simplest of phrases can have a thousand meanings. The Prince said you were forceful. What did you say to him?" 

The Prince thought he was forceful? And then he informed his step mother of his behaviour? Somewhere inside his chest, Enjolras felt a sharp pang. Of course the Prince didn't actually like him when he was himself, when he was a peasant. All those smiles in town today were simply polite gestures made to a man of his own class. For what he had actually been, he had earned the Prince's ire. 

The Prince didn't care about the peasants. He likely didn't care about Pere Valjean either; he had simply let go of him because the nobleman Comte Alexandre Lamarque had commanded so. When the peasant Enjolras had allowed him to borrow his horses, he had him slighted for his behaviour. 

Comte Alexandre Lamarque was enrapturing. Poor, servant Enjolras was a nobody. 

And Enjolras felt his heart break. 

"I asked you a question boy!" 

Twisting his hands nervously, he mumbled _I called him a thief._

"Speak up!" 

"I called him a thief," he said. Montparnasse gasped softly. Daring a glance up, his step mother was staring at him in utter shock. 

"Thief?" she repeated incredulously. "You dare call the Prince of France a thief?" 

He didn't know what it was about those words, but Enjolras began to feel rage swirling in his stomach. _The Prince of France. The Prince of France._ The Prince of France who finds the lives of the everyday boring. The Prince of France who acts charmingly with the nobleman while backbiting the peasant. The Prince of France who was alright with human beings being dragged off in cages and sold to Jacques Cartier's mad voyage unless one of the nobility protested against the act. _The Prince of France. The Prince of France._

In a sudden outburst he snapped, "Why shouldn't I? He was stealing, wasn't he? What makes him so different? Just because he's the God-forsaken Prince of France doesn't make him exempt from the law—" he was cut off as his step mother advanced a step and struck him once more, sending him spiralling into a pair of exceptionally strong, safe arms. Instinctively, he curled up into Pere Valjean's familiar warmth, the old man drawing him close into his protective embrace. 

"What's going on?" he demanded. "Why are you hitting the child so?" Enjolras buried his face in Pere Valjean's chest and pretended he could hide from his step mother like he did when he was young. 

"Don't interfere in this old man!" he could hear his step mother yell. "This insolent boy has dared to raise his voice at me! After all that we've done for him and he has the audacity—"

"Please, Madame, I apologize on his behalf. Do not strike him, he won't repeat the action again."

A few tense moments passed by, the silence punctuated only by Enjolras' ragged breathing as he desperately tried to keep his composure. A few more seconds passed before his step mother eventually conceded, "Enjolras I expect this manner to be spotless. We cannot have a royal bottom sitting on a dirty chaise, can we?" Timidly he nodded his head, still not looking up. 

"Speak, boy!" 

"No, Madame," he whispered. Evidently satisfied, he listened as his step mother's heels clicked along the floor, receding further away until the noise stopped abruptly and turned. 

"Wait, what are you doing here old man?" she demanded. 

Pere Valjean calmly replied, “I have worked off your… my debts, Madame. They told me I could go home." 

“Very well,” his step mother replied disdainfully, leaving the room with Montparnasse hot on her heels. “Come, Eponine!” The sound of hesitant footsteps followed out the room.

In the ensuing silence, the only sound that rang clear was Enjolras’ quiet laboured breaths that, with time, eventually gave way to muffled sobs as he softly cried into Pere Valjean’s warmth. Above him, the man gently shushed him, rubbing a comforting hand on his back. He clung desperately to the fabric beneath his fingers, burrowing his face deeper into Pere Valjean’s chest, unwilling to let anyone see him in such a state, crying, helpless, _weak._ Such a thing was a regular occurrence, and yet, Enjolras never felt as if he could allow his friends to truly see him like this; he was supposed to be strong, to help them, to remain hopeful, and yet, there were still moments when he felt so tired, so deprived, so _drained_ by constantly straining to see the possibilities and hold onto hope when he was consistently surrounded by circumstances that would have broken anyone else’s spirit, something he tried not to dwell on—the fact that there _were_ times he felt so _broken_ on the inside and yet couldn’t tell anyone. Yes he was close with the others, but he had never really allowed himself the luxury of sharing what he really felt like, constantly hiding behind a marble mask that showed off either a charming smile that told others not to worry or a stoic face that revealed nothing. 

And yet, he couldn’t help but think the others already knew a lot more than he gave away. Cosette, kind Cosette who never treated him with anything less than compassion, who always smiled at him and made him smile in return despite how weary he felt; Jehan who seemed to be gifted with the ability to see through his forced smiles and through his soul, who was always there to hold his hand when it would shake and tell him what he needed to hear despite the fact that he actually never told them what was on his mind; Courfeyrac, his best friend since the time he was born, who always knew how to make him laugh and was one of the few people he let glimpse his tears, who held him when he was unable to fall asleep himself despite the fact that Courfeyrac—who took great pride in his appearance—would end up smeared with ash and soot just like Enjolras; Eponine, his stepsister who, despite being part of the family he served, acted nothing like the rest, treating him with respect and fighting with the rest of her family for him; and of course, Pere Valjean, the man he called his Father after his own passed away when he was just five. 

Enjolras wondered what he did to have been given such a family; it surely was a blessing. 

Pere Valjean kept him close and waited until his sobs subsided into sniffles before pulling back and using a hand to gently wipe at the teary streaks lining his face. Taking a few deep breaths, Enjolras composed himself before clearing his throat and looking away. 

“Forgive me,” he said, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice, “I would not have wished for you to have seen that.” 

Pere Valjean gave him a sad smile. “It is not a crime to feel emotion, Enjolras. Nor does it make you weak,” he added sternly. Sighing, he continued, “I just wish you’d be a little more careful when speaking to the Comte and Comtesse. You know what they can be like. One might have thought that after all these years you perhaps might have learned to keep your head down around them.” 

Wrapping his arms around his body, he bit his lip and thought about what Pere Valjean said. Yes, one really would have thought that after all these years, he would have learned to simply shut his mouth and take whatever verbal abuse they shouted at him in hopes they wouldn’t raise their hand, but then why had he been born with a voice, if not to speak out against injustice? Even if it was in the smallest form, even if he was simply arguing with the Comte to allow Courfeyrac a moment of rest for all the hard work he had been carrying out for hours, even if it was to defend the honesty of a mistake when Jehan accidentally burned the eggs, even if it was to speak up for Cosette when she was frightened of heading out to fetch water in the dead of the night—if he didn’t use his voice to help out even in the smallest of ways, what was he for? To speak up, to fight, to help—that was all in his nature, and he knew that was something he couldn’t change no matter how hard the Thénardiers tried to beat it out of him. 

And as he looked back up into Pere Valjean’s eyes, crinkled from his warm smile, he knew that he knew it too. 

Draping a large arm around his shoulders, Pere Valjean steered him around, gently telling him, “Now come, night is almost upon us, we must tend to dinner.”

________________________________________________________

“Wait, what the hell was his name again?” 

“You know, maybe if you’d actually listened to him instead of wolf whistling his every sentence you would know.” 

“How can I resist? He’s acting even sappier than our dear Baron Pontmercy.”

“Can you guys ever go a single day without making fun of me?”

“Not a chance, _mon ami_.” 

Grantaire scrubbed a hand across his face. When he thought to seek his friends' help with the matter of figuring out who exactly the Comte Alexandre Lamarque was, he imagined they’d spend more time discussing potential information about the boy rather than argue about whether Grantaire was going to get laid or not. 

Then again, these were his friends he was talking about. What did he expect? 

Sighing, he lifted his head from out of his hands and glared at the men sitting around his room. Within his regular group, da Vinci’s apprentice—Combeferre—sat with them, content with simply sitting there and smiling as he watched the rest of his friends harass him about his love life. “Can we please get back on topic here?”

Bahorel grinned. “Pray tell, _Your Highness_ , how exactly is this off-topic? You _do_ wanna get laid with the _angel,_ don’t you?”

Grantaire’s eye twitched. He knew he had made a mistake when he accidentally let the nickname he had secretly been using to refer to the Comte in his head slip out in front of his friends. Damn Bossuet and his fine wine. It was an extraordinarily good thing he decided to hide the painting before his friends barged into his room; he couldn’t imagine the teasing he’d have to put up with if they had seen _that._

“No one said anything about getting laid,” he rolled his eyes and said. “I just wanted to know if any of you knew him.” Bossuet exchanged a grin with Bahorel.

“But you _do_ wanna get laid don’t you? Or, rather, do the laying?” he teased. Joly smacked him on the arm. 

“Oh stop teasing! He looks as if he’s going to murder you right here and now, and I really don’t want to have to spend my spare time acting as doctor here too,” he scolded as Bossuet winced and rubbed at his arm. 

“Perhaps you should ask His Highness,” his manservant Feuilly suggested. Grantaire snorted.

“My Father would likely think I’m trying to cheat on the Spanish Princess before I even marry her,” he replied flatly. 

“Honestly, Grantaire, I don’t know why you're so against her. Princess Musichetta is quite a beauty,” Joly remarked dreamily. 

“Yeah? Maybe _you_ should marry her.” 

“Didn’t you say he was visiting a cousin?” Combeferre piped up. As everyone’s eyes turned to look at him, he shifted a little uncomfortably before adding, “You might be able to track him through his cousin.”

“That’s right,” Marius added. “If you give me his cousin’s name, I could find him for you. I know of almost every courtier by name.”

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow. “If you know of every courtier by name then how come you haven’t heard of _him?”_

Marius flushed.

Sighing, Grantaire added, “In any case, I don’t have his cousin’s name either.” Drat. A dead end every which way he turned. Why was this Comte so needlessly mysterious about himself?

Bahorel grinned at him wolfishly and whistled low. “Damn Grantaire. No address. Doesn’t leave a traceable name. No one else has heard of him. This boy really wants you to chase him, doesn’t he?” Knocking back his drink, he continued, “Nonetheless, it’ll probably make it more satisfying when you finally have him.” 

Grantaire glared at him. “Don’t talk about him as if he were property! He’s a human, not a thing!” Bossuet raised his eyebrows in amusement.

“My my Grantaire. Quite the amount of respect! Where did you learn that from?”

“Probably from his _angel!”_ The room burst out into laughter, and despite himself, Grantaire found himself chuckling along. How could he resist? Their laughter was infectious.

A sharp knock at his door was the only warning he got before his Father came bursting into his room. All at once, six figures all shot to their feet, tripping over themselves as they threw themselves into deep bows, murmuring a chorus of “Your Highness!” and “Your Majesty!” Grantaire remained seated, rolling his eyes at the display.

His Father eyed the room disdainfully, his eyes pausing just the slightest bit approvingly when passing over Marius. The King never understood how such a well-mannered boy came to find himself a part of his son’s raucous group of friends. Grantaire watched as the King’s eyes went confused at seeing Combeferre amongst the men, no doubt wondering how the man came to sit with them, before watching as a glimmer of hope began to light in his eyes. He probably thought a man as sensible as Combeferre would be able to convince him to abandon his crusade against his marriage alliance, unaware that Combeferre had ended up agreeing with Grantaire. 

Once he had waved at the rest of the men to sit back down, he turned to look at his son. “In honour of Signor da Vinci,” he nodded at Combeferre, who bowed his head once again, “I have decided to throw a ball. A masked ball,” he declared. 

Okay…? So?

Sensing Grantaire’s apathy, he continued on, “I have come here to strike a compromise.” 

Grantaire sat up. _A compromise?_ He narrowed his eyes, intrigued. 

“Compromise? You?” he asked skeptically. The King nodded decisively.

“If love is what you seek,” the King tilted his head, “then I suggest you find it before then.” _Huh_? “For five days hence, at the stroke of midnight, you will announce your engagement to the girl or boy of your choice, or I will announce it for you. Are we agreed?”

Grantaire stared at his Father in shock. He was… allowing him to choose for himself? Truly? His friends’ jaws hung agape at the King’s proclamation. 

“And… and what of your treaty?” he finally managed to stammer out after what seemed like years. His Father gave him a small smile. 

“Let me worry about Spain,” he informed him gently. “You’ve got bigger problems.” With those final words, his Father left his chambers, shutting the doors behind him. The rest all turned to look at him, but at the current moment, he couldn’t comprehend anything properly. His Father wasn’t forcing him to marry the Spanish Princess. His Father was allowing him to choose his life partner. 

His Father was giving him a choice. 

A whistle broke him out of his trance. 

“Well, I think we all know the love Grantaire will be seeking,” Bahorel remarked casually. Glaring, Grantaire threw a pillow at him, which he batted away easily as the rest fell into a fit of laughter. 

“Be wise, Grantaire. Divorce is only something they do in England.” Feuilly informed him solemnly. 

As he watched the rest of his friends mess around, he couldn’t help but let a smile creep over his own face. 

He already had a choice in mind. Now all he had to do was find him at the masquerade ball. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> -A


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chance encounters, once more, in the forest. An invitation is delivered, Eponine begins to plot a plan, and Enjolras discusses servants, status, and passion with Grantaire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

“Oh Enjolras, I would have given anything to have seen you dressed up like a courtier! Speaking to the Prince himself as if you were of the nobility! What is it you said, that you were a Comte?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes for the hundredth time that morning. News of his meeting with the Prince had spread amongst his friends quickly, and he really couldn’t imagine how they could have learned about the affair (he had spent quite a substantial time glaring at Pere Valjean this morning at breakfast as Cosette and Jehan sat on either side of him, holding onto each of his hands and peppering him with a multitude of questions as Courfeyrac gasped for breath because he was laughing too hard. Later, Eponine had tackled him to the ground, keeping him pinned until he spilled the entire story—God was that girl stronger than she appeared.) It seemed that as they gathered honey from the hives in the bright light of dawn, illuminating their figures in the greenery of the orchard, Jehan would not allow for him to forget the event.

And forget he tried—Enjolras no longer wanted to think of or remember anything about the Prince. Just the thought of him left a bitter taste in his mouth. 

(And left his heart shattered, but Enjolras was sure that wasn’t actually anything important, or whether that had actually really occurred. He still didn’t realize his hand would constantly flit to the back of his right where the Prince’s lips touched his skin.)

He turned to look at Jehan, who was staring past him with a dreamy sort of expression. “Scolding is more like it. Arrogant Prince.” He scowled. “The man is insufferable, a hypocrite. I can’t believe I gave him Papa’s name.” 

Jehan laughed quietly, hiding their smile behind a hand when Enjolras glared at them. With an amused tone they said, “Yes, you’ve been saying that all day now Enj.” 

“That’s because it’s as true now as it was yesterday,” he stated with the utmost conviction. Jehan sighed. 

“Enjolras, love, he’s royalty. They’re just born like that,” they informed him. 

“Well then I guess the penalty for being wealthy is having to live with the rich,” he mused as he concentrated on straining honey into a jar. 

They fell silent for a few moments before Jehan wryly added, “You know, I bet he’s really charming, the Prince. Once you get to know him, that is.” 

Enjolras snorted. “Utterly charming,” he muttered. “Honestly I think he and Montparnasse deserve each other.” Jehan swatted his arm lightly, causing him to spill a dash of honey outside the jar. He glared at them.

“Oh hush! The only throne I want that man to sit on is the one I have to clean everyday!”

And despite the whirlwind of emotions he had been feeling since the night before, Enjolras tipped his head back and laughed. 

________________________________________________________

He had been sweeping the floor when the Royal Page had entered and soiled his last half hour’s worth of work. Enjolras bit back a scathing comment as he watched the man swivel his head, no doubt looking for the master of the house. 

Speak of the devil. His step father walked in at that very moment. 

“Comte Thenardier?” 

His step father nodded briskly. “Yes, that’s me.” 

The Page handed him a folded envelope. Breaking off the wax seal, he tore open the letter. Enjolras watched curiously as his step father’s eyes widened as he read on. Turning his head sharply, he called for his step mother, who hurried in. 

“It looks like our prayers have been answered,” he remarked as he thrust the letter into her hands. “A masque. The Prince is throwing a masque to find a bride or groom. The engagement with Spain has been broken—for now.”

His step mother’s mouth hung open as she scanned the contents of the letter—no, invitation. “Well it seems our children have a chance of entering the court of royals after all. This is it. Eponine or Montparnasse—one of them shall marry the Prince and—”

“And we shall become royals. Richer than any other in Europe, and live in the castle,” his step father finished with a wicked grin.

“Er—Comte?” the Page looked to his step father uncertainly, eyes flickering between him and—Enjolras jolted. Between his step father and him.

His step father didn’t bother looking up at him. “Yes?” he asked absentmindedly. 

“I must make sure you are aware—the invitation is addressed “to all those of marrying age. Monsieur,” he looked to Enjolras, “that includes any servants you may have.”

At this, both his step father and step mother’s head shot up. “What?” he barked. “Why?”

“The King has ordained it so.”

_The King’s orders? But… but the King is supposed to be a monarchical bastard who doesn’t care for the poor!_

His step mother’s lips thinned. “Fine. We shall see to it that such things are taken care of.” 

With the wave of her hand, the Page bowed and left, leaving Enjolras to wonder:

_All those of marrying age. Including servants_

_I fall into that category too._

________________________________________________________

Eponine had lost track of how long she had been made to stand as her Mother dug out dress after dress for her and rifled through what seemed like hundreds of coats and doublets. While Eponine had simply chosen the first dress she laid her eyes on, not caring much about it, her brother was taking a hell of a lot of time longer, and didn't seem to be satisfied with anything. 

"What's wrong with this one?" her Mother asked as she held out a soft green doublet. 

Montparnasse looked at her with disgust. "It's green."

"Prince Grantaire loves green!" her Mother exclaimed. 

"Exactly. That means fifty other people will be wearing the same colour," he explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Exactly the reason why Eponine chose a green dress.

Her Mother looked back, impressed. "Very good, Montparnasse." 

Montparnasse huffed. "I want something that stands out, something fit for a king!" 

Eponine just barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Her Mother hummed thoughtfully. "I know just the thing. Come, follow me." 

Sighing, she followed her Mother and brother down the stairs to—the basement where Enjolras slept? What? There, she pulled out an intricate looking chest out from around a corner. Her eyebrows furrowed. She had never seen this in her life. What was inside it?

"We must not speak of this to anyone?" _What crime did you commit this time Mother dearest?_ "Waste not, want not." 

Unlocking the chest, she pulled out a shimmering three piece—complete with trousers, a shirt, and a rich doublet, all bright white with swirls of sparkling gold on the doublet like that which an angel would wear. It was, to say the least, the most beautiful outfit she had laid eyes on in her life. The fabric was rich, the colour unblemished and then her Mother pulled out the most beautiful part of the dress wear—the boots. She didn't know what it was about them, but there was simply something so dignified about them—proud, tall reaching up to the knees, with the same golden swirling pattern as seen on the doublet—that struck a bold impression, like once you had seen it, the thought of whatever it signified would not leave your mind.

One thing bothered her, though. Eponine knew for a fact this wasn't her Father's, and from the way Montparnasse gaped in delight, it certainly wasn't his either. So where did it come from?

"Yes!" her brother exclaimed breathlessly. "This is it! It's perfect!" 

Running a hand over the rich fabric, she murmured, "Where did you get it?" 

Holding a finger to her lips, her Mother smiled knowingly as she replied, "They're Enjolras' dowry, for his wedding. They're his Father's old wedding clothes ." 

She let go of the cloth immediately. This belonged to Enjolras. She didn't have the right to touch it like this, without him knowing. 

Unfortunately, this was not a lesson learned by her Mother and brother.

Grasping at the fabric as soon as she had put it down, Montparnasse held it close to his chest as he snorted. "Cinders Fellow?" he asked flatly. "Married? To who, the chimney sweep?"

Clenching her jaw and choosing to ignore that comment rather than pick a fight so early in the day, Eponine said, "If this outfit belongs to Enjolras, then it should stay that way. Besides, he'll probably want to wear it to the ball."

Montparnasse sneered. "Since when does a _royal_ function include commoners?"

"The invitation said 'to all those of marrying age,'" she argued. "He's eighteen. That includes him."

"He's not of noble blood!"

"That doesn't change what the invitation said!"

"Oh please." Her Mother held up a hand, effectively silencing the two. "Stop with the bickering." She turned towards her. "Who's going to notice? Besides, why would the Prince even glance in the direction of a common peasant?" 

_Because peasants are people too, the people he should be looking after._

Woah. That was quite the thought. Enjolras would be proud of her. 

"Still, you can't just—Enjolras!" She jumped out of her skin as a familiar head of blond curls appeared in the room. 

Enjolras frowned as he took in the scene in front of him, his eyes sliding from her face, to the unabashed, unashamed faces of her Mother and brother, until finally landing on the clothing Montparnasse had been holding to his chest. "What are you doing?"

Eponine noted with a smug sense of victory that for a moment, her Mother looked panicked, before that sense of victory melted away with the look. "We're airing out your clothes. For the masque," she lied smoothly. 

Eponine narrowed her eyes; that wasn't what she was telling them only a few seconds ago. 

Montparnasse waved his hand dismissively. "I suppose for a _commoner_ it'll have to do. I mean look at it, it's practically ancient."

Enjolras blinked. "You… wish for me to go to the masque? The _Prince’_ s masque?" he murmured in amazement. 

Her Mother hummed disdainfully. "Yes, of course. The invitation did say "'to all those of marrying age,'" she said bitterly. 

If Enjolras noticed the tone of her voice he didn't comment on it. "I just don't know what to say…" he breathed in shocked awe. "You would allow me to come despite the fact that I'm a peasant?"

"Allow you to come?" her Mother repeated with a raised eyebrow. "Enjolras, what makes you think I would allow a filthy rat such as yourself to come seen with us?" Enjolras looked away. "I'm only doing so because the King decrees it. But, then again, perhaps I shall set a few guidelines." He looked back up with hopeful eyes. "As long as you finish all your chores and mind your manners, you shall be given the _privilege_ of accompanying us to the ball." 

Eyes wide, he shook his head and promised, "Yes, I'll get the chores done, and I'll behave… Thank you! Thank you for such an opportunity!" Rushing out the room, he left Eponine to bite her lip and think, _Mother won't intend to follow through on her word about the outfit._

_Then perhaps I shall make it happen myself._

________________________________________________________

Grantaire could not believe he had gone his entire life without Combeferre. Really, from the way he saw it, more than half of the problems he had experienced could have been solved if only Combeferre had been there to provide his expert guidance and wisdom. No wonder da Vinci chose him for an apprentice. 

As they walked through the thicket of the lush forest together, Grantaire allowed himself to lose himself in his thoughts, most of which consisted of a fiery-tongued noble who spoke of the common people of France before disappearing without so much as a trace. Knowing this was one of those moments where he could use Combeferre's advice, he turned to him and cleared his throat. 

"Tell me, Combeferre, what is it mainly that you apprentice under Signor da Vinci for?" 

Combeferre hummed, appreciative that someone was for once asking about him himself rather than the man he worked for. "Well, I'm mostly involved in his work pertaining to the study of human anatomy, but that doesn't mean I won't glimpse his other studies either. The man is a genius, and I find myself very fortunate to be learning under him." 

"Clearly." Grantaire hesitated for a moment before ploughing on, "And what of the affairs of love?" 

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Love?" 

Grantaire looked in front of him. "Does Signor da Vinci have any beliefs about love? About marriage?" 

Combeferre looked thoughtful at this. "Well, my lord does believe in soulmates—you know, the one perfect match." 

Grantaire glanced at him. "And do you?" 

"Yes," Combeferre answered with the utmost conviction. Grantaire raised his eyebrows. 

"How can you be so sure?" 

Combeferre simply shrugged his shoulders. "To be quite honest, I can't. I just… have a feeling I guess." 

Grantaire let the thought stew over in his mind for a little bit. A soulmate—one person you're destined to fall for, to love, to complete. The thought sounded nice enough—beautiful even—but Grantaire was never one for beliefs or faith, especially in fairytales. 

"But how can you be certain to find them?" he challenged, his cynical side finally showing up and out. "And if you find them, are they _really_ the one for you, or do you only think they are? What happens if the person you're meant to be with never appears? Or they do, but," he hesitated for a moment, the memory of a man in red flashing in his head, "but you're too distracted to notice?" 

Combeferre answered all of his rhetoricals simply with a smile, saying "You learn to pay attention." This only spurned Grantaire on further. 

"Then, let's say God puts two people on Earth. They are lucky enough to find each other. They live life happily until boom! One of them gets struck by lightning and dies. What happens then?" Combeferre opened his mouth to reply, but Grantaire carried on. "Is that just it then? Or then, maybe you meet somebody new and fall in love and marry again. Is that the one you should be with? Or was it the first?" Combeferre looked as if he would tell him what he thought about the whole matter, but Grantaire needed to ask, to unload, to release, and he still was not finished. Pushing on, he asked, "If the two of them were walking side by side, were they both the one for you, and you simply just happened to meet the first one first? Or is the second one supposed to be first? Is everything just chance, or are things meant to be?" Combeferre opened his mouth to speak, and when he caught sight of Grantaire inhaling once more, he clapped his hand over the other's mouth in an attempt to allow himself a moment of talking. 

"You can't just leave everything to fate, Grantaire," he explained, using his name after Grantaire's repeated insistence on dropping royal titles. "She's got a lot to do. Sometimes you must give her a hand."

Grantaire pondered the wisdom of his words as he watched Combeferre pull out a contraption of some sort, a diamond shaped piece of parchment stuck onto the tail of a length of string. He peered at it curiously. 

"What's that?" he asked. Combeferre smiled at him. 

"Just a little something I've been working on in my lord's workshop. Nothing too big." 

"It looks… quite strange," Grantaire remarked honestly. 

Combeferre quirked an eyebrow at him. "Would you like to see if it works?" 

________________________________________________________

Walking through the woods, Enjolras took the quiet tranquility to ponder over his step mother’s latest revelation. He would be allowed to attend the masque with them… He would be allowed to attend the masque with them!

Of course, they were only taking him because the letter did say “to all those of marrying age,” but then again, they could have easily lied and told the officials he didn’t exist. Either way, Enjolras would be attending a grand ball. In all his life, he had never thought he would get such an opportunity.

It wasn’t the ball itself that excited him—he knew better than to get excited over some event where the monarchy and nobility flaunted their needless extravagance—it was the fact that with his presence, he would be making a statement. With his Father’s clothes on—an outfit he hadn’t dared to take out since his Father had passed—he would be able to make a point; peasant or noble, your status doesn’t dictate your values. Any peasant could don gold and pass for a noble, and if the difference in clothing is the only stark contrast, then perhaps society ought to reevaluate how they differentiated people, and whether those differences were really valid or not. 

So yes, Enjolras would be going to the ball. That, only if his servant friends were allowed with him. Unfortunately, he knew Cosette and Jehan wouldn’t be able to come considering they were still seventeen, but Courfeyrac was eligible, and Enjolras decided that he would not go unless Courfeyrac came as well.

Perhaps, at the ball, he might even see… 

He shook his head. That wasn’t important. 

Stooping low, he collected another handful of roots and vegetables to dump in the basket, sighing as he realized his hands came away filthy with dirt and grime. Ahead of him, his eyes caught the glint of a river. 

He looked around him hesitantly. Surely a quick dip in the water wouldn't be so bad, would it? He'd hardly take any time at all, he would make sure he made it back to the manor in time. And evidently there seemed to be no one around. Yes, a swim in the river sounded quite lovely. 

Wading into the water, he allowed himself a smile that turned into a genuine laugh as he scrubbed at his face, renewing its glow and sheen. Flipping himself onto his back, he closed his eyes as he let his mind wander off to places far from the manor, where he could read in peace, without the stress of having to be at his stepfamily's constant beck-and-call. As the cool water of the river seeped through his clothes and lapped gently at his skin, he breathed out a sigh and rolled out the tension Cosette constantly harped him about for carrying in his shoulders at all times. 

He could content himself to stay like that the entire day. 

Alas! Nothing good ever lasts, does it?

"Interesting. It looks like rain." 

Enjolras' eyes flew open. Hazily, he was able to make out a figure standing near him on the edge of dry land. He screamed and drew close to himself as the man toppled over, startled, landing with a loud splash in the water.

Scrambling out of the water, he backed away from the stranger. 

"Relax," the man said gently, "I'm not going to harm you. I didn't mean to scare you like that." 

Enjolras scowled. "You did not scare me, Monsieur, merely startled is all," he said indignantly, unwilling to let this stranger see his flaws. 

The man adopted an amused smile and went to reply, but cut himself off, squinting past Enjolras. 

"Combeferre! Are you alright?" 

Enjolras paled. 

_No._

This could not be happening again. How was it that Enjolras found himself with his back turned towards the Prince for the _second day in a row?_ There surely was no doubt about it now; the Prince would catch him and recognize him for what he was; a peasant and nothing more, who had deceived him into giving him back Pere Valjean, and then he would haul him away for punishment while informing his stepparents of his behaviour, and then he would come home and be punished _there_ too for his actions. 

Enjolras was a dead man walking. 

Panicking, he tried to calm his racing mind (and his racing heart—but that was just a sign of stress, right?) Maybe he could still pass as a nobleman? 

How? He mentally slapped himself. A noble dressed in rags? Unlikely. As the footsteps grew louder, so did Enjolras' panic. What could he possibly do? This was it. He was going to die. The Thenardiers were going to kill him. This was it. 

Combeferre stepped closer, eyeing Enjolras' rapid breathing with concern, but wisely choosing to remain silent. "I'm fine, Grantaire, just stumbled into the river. Looks like I wasn't the only one in it." 

Shit. Now Enjolras had to turn around; not doing so would only make him more suspicious. But then the Prince would see him! But what else could he do? He had already wasted enough time debilitating this all in his head, the two men would start to wonder. And the Prince himself would wonder too, he was standing so close he could practically feel the Prince's body warmth enveloping his own shivering figure. Behind him, the Prince cleared his throat, clearly waiting for him to turn around and _goddamnit Enjolras was taking too long why wouldn't he just turn around and, there you go just swivel on your feet and_ —

Oh. 

Prince Grantaire seemed to have fitted himself for a day of riding based on his gear—and wow did he look good. Were his eyes always that green?

Enjolras shook his head. What the hell was he doing?

The Prince’s brows furrowed. “Monsieur le Comte!” he exclaimed, shocked. 

Shutting his eyes, he lowered into a stiff bow, clenching his jaw as he replied, “Your Highness.” Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the Prince’s friend— _Combeferre?_ —raise his eyebrows with an amused smile playing on his lips before he turned and disappeared into the thicket of the woods surrounding them. He watched as the Prince eyed his dripping rags in confusion. Perfect. How would he explain this now?

Involuntarily, he shivered, though whether it was because of the cold or the Prince’s wandering eyes, he couldn’t exactly tell. Instantly, Prince Grantaire was spurred into action, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over Enjolras’ own shoulders, as Enjolras’ mind went blank at the gesture. Why was he still helping him? Surely by now he would have recognized he was a fraud. 

“You’re shivering Monsieur. Where are your attendants? And why are you dressed so?” The Prince looked over him in concern. 

Enjolras snapped his eyes up. “Hmm?” he asked hazily. “Oh I gave them the day off,” he stammered out. _You’re supposed to be a nobleman! Nobles don’t stutter!_ Clearing his throat, he lifted his head up higher and repeated with much more conviction, “I gave them the day off. And I thought, I didn’t exactly want to get my, uh, _proper clothes_ wet, so I judged it wiser to swim in something more, uh, disposable.” There. That seemed a sufficient explanation, right? The corner of Prince Grantaire's lip twitched. 

"You gave your servants a day off?" he asked, amused. "From what, life?" 

Enjolras huffed. "Do you never grow tired of having people wait on you all the time?" 

The Prince laughed. "I can't really grow tired of people waiting on me if I never actually make use of the palace servants, now can I?" 

_Huh?_

The Prince didn't have any servants? But… he was, well, the Prince. Spoiled, arrogant, demanding, and hypocritical. That's what he was, Enjolras knew first hand. 

And yet, Enjolras was beginning to doubt his beliefs even further. 

"Your Highness… has no servants?" he murmured, confused 

The Prince hummed a little as he stooped to button up the jacket around Enjolras' shoulders. "Actually no, that's a bit of a lie. I do have a manservant, but I've always thought of him rather as a friend than a worker."

Enjolras' breath hitched as Prince Grantaire's quick hands reached for the last button at the top near his throat. "There," he whispered, shining him a brilliant smile, "that should keep you warm."

And despite the truth in the Prince's words, Enjolras shivered as Prince Grantaire let his fingers linger on his throat for a moment longer than perhaps necessary, before tracing his thumb along Enjolras' jawline.

"You're quite unlike any other noble I've met, Monsieur le Comte," he murmured as he slid his hand up to cup Enjolras' cheek. "You bargain for the lives of serfs and give your servants days off. You seem to be quite involved in the lives of the peasants." 

Closing his eyes, Enjolras leaned just a little into the Prince's touch. The sensation of the Prince's hand on his cheek was quite unlike what he would have imagined; where he was expecting soft, smooth skin, he instead felt a hand rough and dry. 

_Probably from all that time spent riding,_ he thought hazily. 

"Servants are people, Sire," he breathed as the Prince stroked his cheekbone with his thumb. “A fact that is easily forgotten by those of the nobility. They deserve the same happiness as those of higher standing, deserve to rest, to breathe, to relax, to _live._ Just because we’re peasants doesn’t mean—”

“We?” 

Enjolras’ eyes snapped open in panic. _Shit._ He had said “we.” He had just exposed himself in front of the Prince, all because he had become too distracted to realize what he was saying. 

“I—uhm—what I meant was—” the Prince watched him with a raised brow. Enjolras flushed as he flailed for something— _anything_ —to explain himself. _Your cover’s blown now, Enjolras._ “All I meant, Sire,” he managed out, “was that at times I try to understand their plight—the peasants. And at the end of the day, we’re all human aren’t we? So, on that level, aren’t we all somewhat peasants?” 

The Prince remained quiet for a moment, in which Enjolras started to wonder whether his step parents would allow anyone to attend his funeral, when he started to chuckle.

“Very outspoken, aren’t you? The conviction with which you speak, Comte,” Enjolras gasped softly as Prince Grantaire used his hand to tilt Enjolras’ head up, “both fascinates and saddens me. So much passion, and yet the people you live amongst would not hear you for it. Surely you realize such ponderings are futile?” 

Futile? Enjolras bristled. Treating your servants the way they deserve to be treated—is futile? To allow the peasants a chance at a better, more dignified life—is that futile?

To treat servant Enjolras as respectfully as the Comte Alexandre Lamarque—to the Prince, that was futile. 

_“The Prince said you were forceful.”_

Clenching his jaw, he stepped away, the Prince’s hand falling limply to his side, all feelings of previous wonder and euphoria disappearing in an instant, filled instead with the bitter taste of resentment on his tongue. 

“Forgive me, Your Highness, I must be going,” he said stiffly. Turning quick on his heel, he walked briskly away, wondering why he had allowed himself to get so caught up in the Prince’s one-sided display of politeness, a side only reserved for those of his _standing._

_“The Prince said you were forceful.”_

Spoiled, arrogant, demanding, and hypocritical.

Enjolras was never wrong, was he?

_“The Prince said you were forceful.”_

The Prince cared not for servants despite what he claimed. He spoke ill of them to their lords and left them to suffer at their hands. And who's to say that the Prince wasn't simply lying about not making use of the Palace servants? He had already given Enjolras reason not to trust his word.

_“The Prince said you were forceful.”_

Enjolras had work to do. He would dwell on the matter no longer. He still had to get back to the manor and—

A gasp tore itself from his throat as he felt a hand wrap around his wrist and pull him back. The world turned on itself for a moment before he found himself chest-to-chest with the Prince, his hands held close to the Prince’s heart, the Prince’s free hand resting on the small of his back. He squirmed and struggled to free himself in vain. 

Prince Grantaire cocked his head to one side and peered at him curiously. "You're angry with me," he remarked. Enjolras fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Excellent observation, Your Highness._

“Let go of me,” he demanded, twisting and tugging his wrist. 

The Prince raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Admit it.”

Enjolras’ lips went thin. “If I do, will you let me go?”

“You have my word.”

“Your word means nothing to me. But if you must know, then yes, I suppose I am.”

“And why is that?” 

Enjolras ripped away from the Prince. “Tell me something, _Your Highness,_ do you really practice as much respect with your palace servants as you claim, or are you simply trying to bait me with your snobbery?” Prince Grantaire’s eyebrows furrowed, but before he could open his mouth to respond, Enjolras drove on. “Do you honestly believe there’s nothing wrong with the way our society treats those of the peasantry? Do you really think that there’s no difference made in treating your servants with kindness?”

Prince Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him. “I assure you that you need not doubt my word, Alexandre,” he jolted at the mention of his Father’s name, “for what I say is true. Though I agree with you that those not born of noble blood are not treated with the dignity they deserve, I simply cannot find it within myself to agree that the change you suggest is possible. But please know that at the very least, I treat the only servant I have—my close friend Feuilly—with as much respect as I do with my noble friends.” 

Enjolras scoffed. “And I? If I were to have been a peasant rather than a Comte, would you still listen to my words? Would you still consider my rebukes? Would you still tolerate my _insolence_?” 

“I don’t see myself as treating you any different if you were a serf, Comte. I’d still feel myself as enamoured with you like that as I do with you right now.”

Enjolras shivered at his words; could he truly believe him? Lord knew he wanted to—oh he desperately wanted to (why? He didn't exactly know.) But the memory of yesterday's words still rang clear in his mind and made his mouth twist in contempt. 

"You are not true to your word, Your Highness," as the words slipped out, he noticed the Prince's eyes coloured a shade darker. 

"Now look, Comte, I have been extremely forgiving of your words up until now, but your doubt is starting to edge very close—"

"To what? Treason? It is not treason to speak truth, Your Highness." 

The hand on his back tightened in warning. "Alexandre—"

"Tell me if it's true that you stole a horse from a peasant yesterday?" 

The Prince let go of him. 

"Yes. How did you know?" he asked curiously. Enjolras bit his lip and hesitated. What would he say? He obviously couldn't say that he himself was the peasant, nor could he say that the servant was his. 

"He… he told me," Enjolras lied. "I… happen to know him." 

Prince Grantaire's eyes flickered over his features, his eyes narrowing for a minute before his face went completely neutral. 

"If this is the matter, Comte, then I find it would be wise for you to know I took the horse with the boy's—" Enjolras cringed inwardly at being called a boy, "—permission, and that I promptly returned it afterwards," the Prince informed him with a chill in his words. Enjolras balled up his fists.

"And then you reported him to his lords for being insubordinate," he finished for him. Prince Grantaire looked taken aback. 

"I—no, I don't really recall doing such a thing." Enjolras' fury and anger rose up like a colossus; he positively burned. Did a servant's life really matter so little to this man that he had already put him out of his mind, that the insult he had thrown at him already extinguished itself from his memory? Was that how little he cared about the poor? 

Stepping up to him, Enjolras jabbed a finger at his chest as he hissed, "Well! You! Did! And then your insult was cause enough for his punishment! Or do you simply find yourself not caring for the man who let you take his dead Father's horse without so much as a moment's hesitation?" The words were out faster than he could think, and as soon as they were spoken, he regretted it. He didn't want to have let slip that the horse was his Father's; that was something he guarded close to his heart, and he had just confessed it to the _Prince of France._

Wonderful. 

As for the Prince himself, he looked rather shocked, as if he had no idea such a thing was likely to occur. Enjolras wanted to laugh. Privileged prince. He's never had to think of another's wellbeing, why would he have kept thought about Enjolras after that morning chance-encounter?

Perhaps he was being unreasonable. Perhaps Jehan's words were right when put in this context. _He’s royalty. They’re just born like that._

"Well what did he say?" 

"What?" 

"You said I insulted him. I don't actually have any memory of what I may have said. What did I call him?" 

All at once, his anger drained out of him. Enjolras deflated; he was _so tired._ So tired of allowing a few words to hurt him to such an extent, so tired of telling himself that it didn't hurt, so tired of acting so critical of the Prince in front of his friends when he really smiled at the thought of him, so tired of smiling at the thought of him because he should be more critical, so tired of being confused as to what was going on in his heart, so tired of experiencing it all in a matter of _two days._

"You told the Comtesse he was forceful," he replied quietly, tearing his eyes away. Inside his head, Enjolras wondered whether his anger even really was justified. What he did was a crime, after all. To have talked to the Prince in the manner he had that morning; Enjolras should have been thrown in the stocks. But instead the Prince had been merciful and left him alone, opting only to rightfully report him for his behaviour. The only thing he had to bear in exchange was a couple of hits, and that was it. In those terms, Enjolras had no right to be so cross.

And yet, in that stubborn part of his heart, he felt it was more the matter that _Prince Grantaire_ thought he deserved to be punished for what he had said more than anything. 

What was that saying?

Ah yes.

_His feelings were hurt._

When he glanced back up, he was taken just the slightest bit aback when he noticed the Prince looked bewildered. "I'm sorry," he said. "Please understand that I did not mean it in the way you've interpreted my words. I simply meant to say that the boy—'' _I am not a boy!_ "—was fierce, more so brave and commendable rather than insubordinate. I had no idea my words would have such a negative effect for him." 

Enjolras crossed his arms and sighed, looking past the Prince at the landscape. So when the Prince had called him forceful, he meant it as a _compliment?_ He had _praised him?_ He wasn't reporting him to the Thenardiers? 

Enjolras was _so confused._

What could he believe about this man? Was there _anything_ he could believe in this man? Faith came so naturally to Enjolras—it was the belief and hope coursing through his veins that got him through every day no matter how bad it had gone—and so it was near impossible that his belief didn't give itself away like greedy vines growing over an abandoned castle—desperately reaching out for even the slightest morsel of hope. Jehan had once told him that his faith was both his greatest strength and weakness; his immense faith is what made him who he was, made him so passionate, made him the man all his friends in the household looked up to. At the same time, Jehan warned, Enjolras could be naïve, be overtly trusting, _have too much faith,_ and it was for this reason Jehan would hope that Enjolras would not give away the faith he regarded as so sacred to the wrong person and end up having his heart shattered, because they were afraid that if that were to happen, it would break Enjolras beyond repair.

And so, when Prince Grantaire had given his explanation for why he had called him forceful, with what intention he had called him forceful, and apologized when his intentions ended up mangled, Enjolras felt the resentment that had long coated his tongue since the day before wash away and felt those greedy tendrils of hope in his heart unfurl to latch onto the words spoken. Resist as much as he could try, he couldn't do it. That's just how the believer worked, he supposed. Yes, the Prince wasn't insulting him—quite the opposite. He was praising Enjolras, and it was the Thenardiers who had it all wrong. The Prince never meant to do any harm to him, so how could he harbour any grudge?

But then again, Enjolras thought to be more cynical. True, the Prince didn't mean to hurt him with his words, but that didn't change the fact that he would probably have Enjolras punished for charading as a nobleman were he to find out who he really was. _It would not be wise,_ he thought to himself, _to get too attached._

(Though his heart did want to, it really did, but Enjolras opted to ignore that feeling—surely it was nothing, right?) 

And then there was the matter that the Prince had told him he would treat him no different if he were a peasant, that he would still be _enamoured_ (the word made Enjolras' heart trip up a little—what did he mean _enamoured?_ Maybe he just simply found him good for conversation, maybe that type of enamoured? Did that enamouration have anything to do with the way he looked at Enjolras? Wait, was the way he looked at Enjolras special? Perhaps he was just enamoured with him in a polite way. Yes, that was it.) He told him that if he were a peasant, it would not matter, and yet, for all his conviction, Enjolras knew that even _his_ faith had a limit. 

He simply could not afford to believe the Prince about this one thing.

"I'm sorry," the Prince murmured from above, where Enjolras' head was tucked underneath Prince Grantaire's chin, gathered warm and safe in the Prince's arms and— _wait when did this happen? How did he end up here?_

He subconsciously burrowed closer into his chest as he tried to puzzle out the answer.

"I truly meant no harm. If it matters to you that much, then I shall seek the servant out and apologize to him myself. Face to face."

_SHIT._

"No!" he blurted out, shoving away abruptly from the Prince, who immediately frowned. Cursing himself out inwardly for his sudden outburst, Enjolras faked a nervous laugh as he said, "I'm sure that won't be necessary. He's already forgiven you, Your Highness, he's got quite a bit of a heart of gold…"

Prince Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows. "But it matters to you. I want to make amends for my mistake. To both him and you." 

But that was just the problem! If he made amends to the Comte, he couldn't possibly make amends to the servant, or it would end up with time in the stalks and God knows what back at home for both of them! Or one of them! Both of them? Enjolras didn't know!

"No, sire, really, it's fine. He said he's over it… and with your apology… so am I." The Prince peered at him. 

"Truly?" 

"...Of course." 

Inspecting him for a moment, the Prince cocked his head and crossed his arms, taking a cautious step closer. "I must confess, Comte, that I find you rather fascinating." 

Enjolras swallowed nervously. 

"Me?" 

"Yes you. For the past few minutes you've harped on me for the life I lead, making use of the palace servants, and accuse me of being an ingrate who takes advantage of his position in society, all the while being a nobleman yourself, someone who admittedly has his own servants." Enjolras opened his mouth to defend himself as several responses sprang on the surface of his tongue, his most prominent, yet the only one he can't say being _I'm not a nobleman,_ but the Prince continued to speak on. "You spout the ideals of a utopian society, yet lead the life of a courtier." With a grin the Prince slid a hand around his waist and held him close to his chest, Enjolras' breath stuttering. "You're a walking contradiction, Monsieur."

Enjolras sighed and gave the man holding him an exasperated look. "Your Highness—"

"Call me Grantaire," the Prince interrupted with a wink.

Ignoring him, he continued "—you own all the land there is, yet you take no pride in working it. Is that not also a contradiction?" he challenged. 

The Prince— _Grantaire_ —chuckled. "First I'm arrogant, and now I have no pride. However do I manage that?" He pulled him closer. From up close, Enjolras noticed the Prince's eyes weren't ordinarily green; they were green like the emeralds he had seen his step mother wear on her rings and… 

That wasn't important; why exactly did he care?

Ignoring the way his heart was racing underneath his chest, he tried his best to keep his voice steady and calm. 

"You have—" he started breathlessly in a squeak. Immediately, he clamped his mouth shut in horror. The Prince's grin grew more mischievous at the sound of his voice. Clearing his throat and willing his heart to _just be steady,_ he started again in what he hoped was a more controlled manner, "You have everything, and still the world holds no joy for you. Yet, you make fun of those of us who would see it for it's possibilities." 

The Prince gazed at him in wonder. Anxiously, Enjolras wondered if he shouldn't have said what he had just said. Then, he chastised himself for the thought. It didn't matter if this was the Prince he was talking to; the truth remained the same, and Enjolras would not back down on his beliefs. He said what he needed to say, and the point still stands, whether or not there would be retribution for his words or not. Holding his head high, he looked the Prince in the eyes with the utmost conviction. 

A moment longer passed when the Prince finally managed to say, "How do you do it?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "Do what?" 

"Live every day with this kind of passion. Do you not find it exhausting?" the Prince marveled.

Enjolras bit back a remark on how it was this passion that got him through each day. Silently, he thought in his head that were everyone to have this passion, _the Crown Prince in particular_ , they would have been able to change the ways of the kingdom ages ago. Even the slightest bit of passion, and the Prince could have done remarkable things, and yet his adamancy to stay cynical, to question just about every effort Enjolras suggested, annoyed him greatly. 

Giving him a flat stare, he deadpanned, "Only when I'm with you. Why do you like to irritate me so?" 

The Prince smirked. "Why do you rise to the occasion?"

Furrowing his eyebrows, Enjolras went to answer when faintly he heard Eponine call his name from a distance. Shit. How long had he been here? He still had so much to get done back at home! 

A greater panic overtook him. What if Eponine—or worse, one of his step parents—came looking for him? And then called him Enjolras in front of the Prince? How could he ever explain that? 

He needed to get back to the manor as soon as possible. 

Disentangling himself from the Prince's arms, (he felt a jolt go through his veins when the Prince's grip tightened for just a minute before letting him go) he gave him an apologetic expression as he stepped away. “Forgive me, Your Highness—”

“ _Grantaire_ —”

“—but it seems I have lost track of time. I must leave.” 

“You’re leaving now? But the wind is perfect!” The Prince’s friend—Combe-something—poked his head out of a bush and emerged with a rather interesting object held in his hands. Enjolras frowned. 

“Have you been listening to our conversation this entire time?” he asked with an accusatory tone in his voice. 

The man raised an eyebrow, amused. “Forgive me, Monsieur, but it’s not exactly eavesdropping if you two are talking just above the regular volume and I happen to pass by and hear what you say.”

The Prince rolled his eyes. “Very smart, Combeferre.” 

The man— _Combeferre_ —persisted. “You can’t leave now. The wind is just perfect for us to fly it.” He waved the object, some square—no, diamond—piece of parchment—or was that fabric?—attached to a length of string. Despite his curious nature and undeniable want to see what Combeferre was talking about—would it really fly?—Enjolras knew the seconds were ticking by. Faintly, Eponine called his name once more. 

He shook his head. “I can’t.” He turned to leave when he felt the Prince grab his wrist, pulling him in close. 

“I am playing tennis tomorrow. Will you come tomorrow?” The Prince’s eyes were so earnest, Enjolras bit his lip to keep from saying anything stupid in front of him.

“I must go,” he whispered. The Prince looked at him for a moment more, looking as if he wanted to say something, before he sighed resignedly. To Enjolras’ great delight—or dismay, he couldn’t tell which—he raised Enjolras’ hand once more and pressed a gentle kiss to his skin. 

The Prince started, “Come with me to—” 

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras broke away. “I’m sorry.” Turning, he sprinted through the trees and away from the Prince, whose disappointed eyes followed his swift movements. 

________________________________________________________

“Why does he keep doing that?”

“So that’s him then. Well the rest are going to have a field day when I tell them what I heard.”

“Combeferre you better not.”

“By the way, you forgot your jacket.”

“Thanks I—where is it?”

“Not with me, that’s for sure.”

“Damn it.”

“I’m not exactly sure what it is your damning; it simply looks like to me you’ll just _have_ to seek out the Comte again to retrieve that precious jacket of yours, find out where it is he lives, maybe make a little small talk so as not to be rude, maybe ask a few questions…” 

“...This is why you’re da Vinci’s apprentice, isn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> Toss a comment/kudo to your fanfic writer, it keeps us going ;)
> 
> -A


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some shocking news of the Prince is delivered, Grantaire thinks over the meaning of believing again, and Enjolras ponders the similarities between him and a chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Shit you guys I totally forgot I didn't upload today's chapter and I don't even know how. Anyways, sorry for the delay.
> 
> TW: Sexual harrassment and a bit of victim blaming for unwanted attention.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Enjolras felt himself skidding on the floor of the manor as he was pulled over by Eponine’s hand.

“Enjolras wait! You can’t go in like this!’ she hissed. He furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Like what?” he asked, confused. Eponine looked at him incredulously.

“Like this!” she gestured frantically to his figure. “Mother and Father are going to think you stole from their closet. They’ll be furious! Where did you even get this from?” This answer, however, did nothing to dispel his confusion. 

“You’re not making any sense, Eponine. What did I do?” 

Slapping a hand to her forehead, Eponine let out a long-suffering groan. “For someone so brilliant, Enj, sometimes you can be incredibly oblivious.” Reaching out, she seized a handful of his coat and waved it in her fist. 

“This! Where did you get this?” Confused, Enjolras inspected the coat he was wearing, trying to find what was faulty about it.

His coat.

His coat… 

His impeccable green coat, made of rich threads, without a single tear or hole in it, significantly taller and broader than his figure. 

Enjolras paled.

“Eponine, this… this isn’t mine…” he managed to stammer out. Eponine gave him a frantic nod of her head. 

“Yeah, I figured that out, Enj. Where’d you get it? Be honest, did you take it from someone? Because you know if you needed a new coat I could’ve snuck out and bought one for you—”

“What? No, I didn’t steal it!” he whispered indignantly back. “What do you take me for?” he asked, just the slightest bit hurt by what she suggested.

Eponine shook her head. “Okay, I’m sorry I said that. But seriously, where is it—”

“ENJOLRAS!”

Eponine cursed under her breath, shaking her head. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Here, just give me the coat, I’ll hide it in my chambers. You need to get in there.” She held out an expectant hand. 

Enjolras hesitated. Subconsciously, he tightened the coat over him, feeling an unexpected surge of protectiveness over the piece of clothing. 

“Enjolras, come on!” 

Like a spell broken, he snapped out of his trance and shrugged off the coat quickly, shivering as the cold draped over his still-wet clothes, chilly without the warmth of the coat to protect him. He handed it over before turning to head into the dining room. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, however, he stopped, stalling, before turning around for a split moment. 

“Eponine, you will…” he hesitated, “...you will take care of it, right?”

His step sister gave him a small smile. 

“Don’t stress, I’ll be gentle. Now go.”

With one last smile, he turned resolutely into the dining hall, where the rest of the servants were gathered, heads bowed as his step father paced furiously in front, his step brother lounging comfortably on a chair, his step mother glaring at them all distastefully. Heart rate slightly picking up, he came to stand in between Pere Valjean and Jehan. 

When his step father finally caught sight of him, he sneered, “Why the delay, boy?” 

“I’m sorry, Monsieur. I strayed from the trail,” he lied quickly.

Ignoring him (and earning an inaudible sigh of relief from Enjolras) his step father continued to pace. “Jehan! Where are our candlesticks? We can hardly see our plates!” he suddenly barked. 

Jehan jumped. “They’re missing, Monsieur.” At the look of fury on the Comte’s face, they continued hastily, “I’ve searched high and low for them.” 

Enjolras felt his heart sink. _The candlesticks were missing?_ Those candlesticks were so very special. They didn’t even really belong to his step parents; they had been given to Pere Valjean by some sort of a Bishop who Pere Valjean had had an immense amount of respect for. Upon his indenture to the Thenardiers, he was forced to give it up to them, but there wasn’t a single one of them that didn’t know that those candlesticks _really_ belonged to Pere Valjean. And now, under their carelessness, they had lost Pere Valjean’s precious candlesticks.

The thought made him sick. 

“The painting in the hall is gone too,” Montparnasse added lazily. Focusing his dark, glittering eyes on Enjolras, he remarked, “It seems we have a thief in our midst.” 

What? He couldn’t possibly suspect Enjolras to have stolen it! Why would he want to steal his own Father’s painting?

The Comtesse rose from her seat and eyed them all with rage. “So this is how you treat us after all these years!” she harrowed. “My late husband’s most prized possession!” Enjolras winced. “Stolen!” Enjolras tried not to think too hard about how his Papa’s most prized possession happened to be the books he left him. The Comtesse’s voice was full of disgust, but as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes, Enjolras knew it had less to do with his Father’s painting being stolen and more the fact that the painting was a symbol of wealth and had costed a fortune—a fortune the Thenardiers had just lost.

“Well,” his step father began again, his voice cold, “I suppose we’ll just have to garnish each of your wages,” he nodded to the rest except him—Enjolras may be treated like, or perhaps worse even than, a servant, but the Thenardiers had exploited the fact that he was technically “related” to them to justify not giving him a wage, “until the pilfered items are returned.”

 _Garnish their wages?_ But the Comte and Comtesse hardly paid his friends anything at all! He couldn’t dock their wages anymore, they would barely have enough to get by

“Wait, you can’t just—” his protest was cut off when Pere Valjean reached out and squeezed his hand _hard._ His step father stalked closer, eyes narrowing.

“What can’t I _just_ , boy? Speak up! Do you dare to question my decisions?” 

Enjolras opened his mouth up to speak because _god dammit he didn’t care if he would be punished, he had to speak out against this, this wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t just_ — but Pere Valjean beat him to the chase. 

“Forgive him, Monsieur, he didn’t mean any harm. He’s simply just shocked over the theft of his Father’s painting.” 

His step father watched him with a burning gaze, leaning forward as Enjolras flinched back. "Learn to keep that mouth of yours under control, Enjolras, or I will forget to keep my hand under control." 

With a timid nod, Enjolras mumbled out a quiet, _yes Monsieur_ as the Comte went back to pacing.

"Perhaps I should have you all shipped to the Americas with all the rest of those thieves," he muttered. 

"Didn't you hear, Father dearest?" 

Everyone's heads snapped around to look at Eponine, who stood leaning against the wall, her eyebrows raised almost in amusement. 

"What? What is it?" his step father snapped. She smirked. 

"The Prince asked the King to release all those men." 

_What?_

The Prince… had those men released?

_“So you do find me arrogant. Now what can I do to change that opinion?”_

_“Maybe instead of simply freeing just one man, you could at the very least take a look at all those still trapped in their cage.”_

So shocked was Enjolras at these revelations, that he forgot his step father's previous threat and blurted out, "He didn't! No way!" 

When Eponine turned to look at him, her smirk only grew wider. "He did. Seems a certain Comte's magical words changed his mind." Enjolras felt himself flush red. The Prince had actually listened to him. The Prince listened to _him._ The Prince set the lives of simple peasants free. 

_Prince Grantaire did that._

"Now by royal decree, any man who sails must be compensated." 

Enjolras felt his lips part in surprise. 

People were no longer being taken on Cartier's mad voyages against their will. 

Only those who wanted to sail were doing so, and they were being given compensation for their efforts. 

Peasants were no longer being sold by their lords to die at sea. 

All because Prince Grantaire decided to listen. 

All because Prince Grantaire decided to listen to _him._

If Enjolras were alone, he'd allow himself to collapse into a chair.

"Compensated?" his step father scoffed. "What is the world coming to?" 

In front of him, Montparnasse suddenly sprang out of his chair, his eyes cold with fury. 

"I want to know who this Comte is that everyone keeps talking about!" he exclaimed. _Everyone keeps talking about? That can't be right._ "I heard all of the Prince' closest friends speaking of him today and how the Prince fell all over himself for him." 

_The Prince was doing what exactly?_

The Prince? Fall over himself? For _Enjolras?_

That definitely was not right. It couldn't be right. 

_Why not?_ a small voice at the back of his head whispered. 

_Because it just can't!_ the other side shouted.

Enjolras rubbed at his temples. 

His step mother rubbed his step brother's shoulders soothingly. "Don't worry about it, 'Parnasse. We'll find him, and we'll bury him." Turning towards the rest of them, she glared and barked out, "You're dismissed." With the wave of her hand, the servants quietly filed out of the room, Cosette grabbing him by the hand and dragging him off to their private servant's quarters to no doubt try and pry out every bit of information she thought he knew. 

The problem was, she would be getting nothing, considering that Enjolras himself knew nothing of this. 

_Prince Grantaire released those serfs._

_Prince Grantaire listened to me._

________________________________________________________

“Bossuet you’re the one who hit it, you go get it!” 

“But you’re closer! You’re just wasting time, R, now go.” 

Grantaire cursed. Of all places Bossuet could have ended up hitting the tennis ball into, it had to be where the Comtesse Thenardier, with her two children, Montparnasse and Eponine (he knew he should be addressing them by their proper titles— _the Honourable_ —but he wasn’t about to do so in his mind. What did he care for?) sat, and with the exception of the daughter, the two looked like they would feast on his flesh as soon as he stepped up to claim the ball, vicious smiles, bared teeth, greedy for a spot on the throne. 

“You know, Bossuet, I’m beginning to think your bad luck is rubbing off on me.”

________________________________________________________

Try as he might, Enjolras simply could not focus on the produce he was supposed to be selling. Even the raucousness of the local marketplace wasn't loud enough to interrupt his thoughts. As he gazed down at the green lettuce, his mind couldn't help but stray to a much more interesting sight—a pair of green eyes, so bright and vivid, especially when seen held up close to a warm chest, gathered in strong arms… 

Enjolras shook his head. _What are you doing? You're here to sell produce, not daydream about a man you don't care for._

He was here to sell his step parents' orchard-grown produce, definitely not daydream about the man he had spent the duration of the night thinking about after yesterday's revelation from Eponine.

A man who cared for Enjolras, however, as evidently seen in the fact that he actually listened to him and released the serfs previously bound for Cartier's voyage. 

And if he cared for Enjolras—well Enjolras couldn't exactly help if those tendrils of hope in his heart grasped out greedily for something perhaps more, could he? 

He thought back to the coat now hidden safely in his chest, the one he kept hidden far from his prying step family's eyes. The coat that he may or may not have used as a pseudo-blanket the night before. 

(It wasn't his fault the basement where the fireplace was located was so chillingly cold. That was it; he was just using it as a substitute quilt. If someone had given him a real quilt, he wouldn't have used the coat, but because he had nothing else, well… 

He definitely didn't spend the night breathing in the scent of the coat— _Prince Grantaire's scent._ Absolutely not. No matter what Courfeyrac said when he came downstairs to rouse him and found him lying like that, blissful and content. Maybe Courfeyrac should learn that not everything needs to be laughed at, how about that? 

Then again, perhaps his teasing about how Enjolras would have rather been lying wrapped up in the Prince's arms rather than just his coat weren't so far off…)

A knock on the cart laden with fresh fruits and vegetables startled him out of his thoughts. Glancing up, Enjolras felt his mood quickly sour as he looked up into the face of a man he dreaded having to see every week when his step parents made him, Cosette, and Jehan go out into the market to sell the produce they grew in the orchards. Enjolras had complained about him a handful of times to his step father, but seeing as he was a regular customer at their cart, all he had gotten in response was a backhand and a threat to continue serving him unless Enjolras wanted to feel the real force of his hand.

"Enjolras. My my, you get prettier every week." 

"And you, Monsieur Tholomyes, are wasting your flattery," he replied, clenching his jaw and keeping himself busy by starting to pack up the nobleman's usual order. Cosette and Jehan planted themselves firmly at his sides protectively. 

The man grinned lazily at him. Balding with thin blond hair, wrinkled despite only being of forty, and missing several teeth, Enjolras for the life of him could not fathom why Felix Tholomyes thought himself so charming when all he came off as was predatory and revolting. Enjolras watched as he surveyed the food distastefully. 

"It's a pity your soil's the best in the province… and yet so poorly tended," he remarked casually. 

"We have limited resources, Monsieur. We do the best we can," Jehan explained, their tone deceptively light, a calm on the surface, a raging storm at the ready underneath should they be provoked. Felix leaned closer towards Enjolras, whose hand faltered for just a moment at the discomfort in the sudden close proximity, before he forced himself to act as nonchalant and unbothered as possible, continuing to gather more produce. 

Felix hummed. "Anything I can do to help?" He traced a finger along Enjolras' arm; Enjolras pulled back and suppressed a shudder of disgust. 

Cosette's lips went thin. "Perhaps you should bring it up with the Comte or Comtesse if you're so concerned, Monsieur. For now, I suggest you stick to shopping," she said, voice hard.

Felix didn't look the slightest bit frazzled by the slight threatening tone in Cosette's voice as he kept his focus solely on him. "I'd like to discuss it with Enjolras, if you don't mind." Reaching out, he grabbed his wrist hard, forcing Enjolras to look him in the eyes as he spoke. "I may be a little more than twice your age, child, but I'm well endowed, as evidenced by my estate. I've always had a soft spot for the less fortunate. Surely you can admire that, Enjolras, passionate about such things as you are. It's really quite simple; you need a wealthy benefactor and I need a young man with spirit." 

Ripping his wrist away, Enjolras glared furiously at this man, his entire being burning with rage. _No._ How many times would he have to repeat the same word? _No. No. No. No. No._ Was it really that hard to grasp, or was Tholomyes just that foolish?

The answer was more so that Enjolras was the foolish one considering he knew that with Tholomyes, it wasn't that he didn't understand, it was simply that he didn't care. He knew what he wanted and he would not stop persisting until he had it. 

The thought made Enjolras shudder.

Though he would’ve liked nothing better than to swing the fist he had currently curled up at his side, he knew better than to create a scene with a powerful nobleman like Tholomyes, especially considering he was quite close with his step father, and any action he took would have severe repercussions on himself. With that in mind, he willed his rage to ebb away as he gave the man a flat stare, gesturing to the produce packed in front of him and steadily asked, “Would you like anything else?”

Tholomyes eyed him for a moment more before replying thoughtfully, “No, I’ll buy nothing this week.” Looking him dead in the eyes, he continued, “And you’d do well to remember that without my generosity, your pathetic little farm would cease to exist. If I were you, boy, I would be very, very careful.” With that, he swept away from their cart, leaving Enjolras watching his leaving figure in seething contempt. Ignoring his trembling hands, he placed the food he had packed back on the cart, arranged as they were before. 

Cosette took his hand in hers and squeezed. Casting a loathsome look at Tholomyes' back, she muttered, “What a horrible man! If he didn’t buy a bushel of vegetables every week, I would spit on him.”

________________________________________________________

Grantaire racked his head hard, trying to think back exactly as to how exactly he had ended up in this situation. One moment, he had been making polite small talk as he attempted to retrieve the tennis ball, the next thing he knew, he was being dragged through the marketplace, Montparnasse’s firm hand grasping at his arm as he was tugged along, the Comtesse a sizeable distance away, all polite smiles. The only thing currently keeping him entertained were Eponine’s exasperated sighs and eye-rolls next to him; that made him smile in amusement. 

“Why are you even here?” she demanded as her brother walked off, leaving him to breathe for a moment while he inspected something on a nearby cart. Grantaire raised his eyebrows and smiled lightly at the girl's neglected use of royal titles towards him.

“Well your brother didn’t exactly give me much of a choice,” he explained lightly. Eponine rolled her eyes. 

“Are you interested?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Are you going to tell me that if I hurt him, you’ll hurt me?” 

Eponine snorted and rolled her eyes. “God no,” she breathed. “Put in a good word about ‘Parnasse? Over my grave.” 

Grantaire chuckled. “Some extreme sentiments."

“He doesn’t deserve praise. He’s cruel. Why are you interested?” 

Grantaire’s mouth went flat. “I never said I was.”

Eponine nodded before adding casually, “I see. So… anyone else you’ve got in mind? Maybe a certain Duke… Baron… or perhaps a _Comte_?” her eyes turned sharp at the last mention.

Grantaire cocked his head. “Why does it matter to you?”

She shrugged. “I’ve just heard rumours from the royal court of a certain... Comte Lamarque.” 

Grantaire inhaled sharply. “Do you know him? Personally?” Eponine smirked.

“Eager to know, are we? First tell me—this isn’t a one-time fling-thing, is it? Best tell me now, because if it's _him_ you hurt _,_ I’ll break your jaw.”

Grantaire shook his head quickly, ignoring the threat to his royal person. “Never. It’s not. I…” he trailed off. How was he to explain his feelings for the Comte? It seemed against his very nature itself. Grantaire was a cynic; his body was composed entirely of the singular need to question. Question progress, question faith, question _love._ There wasn't a single thing he hadn't looked upon without a scoff and an immediate dismissal. These constant questions had invariably led him to one conclusion; nothing he had done, did, or would do mattered. It could be said, then, that it was almost as if a part of his being were lifeless. Life is found within the passions of the everyday; romanticizing the mundane is often what makes living in this hell we deign to call life just the slightest bit bearable. It was for this reason why, Grantaire knew, that Marius would write his little love confessions in his notebook, Bahorel would delight in wearing red everyday, Bossuet would laugh whenever wherever, Feuilly would sketch with whatever he had. Make the mundane romantic. Why is mundane mundane? Is it not so we take up the effort to shape it to our own liking? Was life not made for us to design to our ideal? 

How many times had Grantaire scoffed when Marius preached of love? How many times, after having listened to Combeferre about supposed soulmates, had he later thought himself ridiculous for allowing himself to believe in such an absurd theory and rolled his eyes? When it came to love, Grantaire was just as cynical, perhaps even more so. Sure, he had bedded plenty of noblemen and women alike, but he had never thought much of it beyond the want of physical pleasure. He certainly was no believer of love at first sight. 

But when it came to the Comte—Grantaire found himself doubting his own doubt. After all, is it not with a first look that love starts? And with the man, he felt the passion that he once held within his spirit, deadened and weak, kindled once more; it was impossible not to. The Comte's passion burned bright and warm, and had seemed to seep into every crevice of his cold body. In other words, Grantaire had felt himself come back to life in the presence of the Comte. It was a feeling unlike any other he had. The Comte held so much faith within himself, about everything everywhere despite being surrounded by a world that would not take kindly to his views, a world so opposite what he wanted, and still he not only continued to live, but he _thrived._

Grantaire wanted that sort of passion too, and it seemed to come alive when he was in the presence of the Comte. If the Comte could believe in so much, surely Grantaire could believe in at least two things: the Comte himself, and Grantaire's love for him. 

Maybe it was for Grantaire's immense belief in his words, in his convictions, in his faith, that he had set the prisoner serfs free and issued the new royal decree.

With this in mind, he said firmly, "It's nothing that will ever hurt him. I could never in my twenty-one years of life think of committing such a heinous crime as to deliver him any pain. I only wish to… to see him."

Eponine snorted and rolled her eyes. "Alright, _Paris of Troy_ , let's calm down there. I'm just warning you. I mean, if you really feel there's love, why not go get it? I'm sure he'd be more than willing to accept, inexperienced though he is," she said with a wry grin.

Grantaire's mouth went dry. The way the girl spoke about him… "You do know him on a personal level, don't you?" Eponine's grin faltered. "You must tell me where he lives. Or at least who he's staying with," he implored, gripping her shoulders. In front of him, Eponine bit the inside of her cheek as her face gave way to nervousness. 

"Ah…. well…" 

"Yes?" 

"Well… I don't really… Montparnasse, there you are! I was just talking to His Highness about… his… interest in you?" 

Grantaire whirled around, barely biting back a groan as the boy's features went smug at his sister's words. 

"Really?" he asked. "His Highness has expressed interest in me?" Grabbing him once more by the arm, Montparnasse began to lead him through the bustle of the marketplace, chattering mindlessly about how _flattered and honoured he was that His Highness had even so much as looked at him,_ how he _didn't deserve such a gift, His Highness is simply too kind._ Grantaire looked back over his shoulder to send a glare at Eponine, but found she had disappeared in the dust. 

_Without,_ he realized with a jolt, _answering my question._

________________________________________________________

Enjolras wrestled with the chicken on the ground, although unhappily. Poor bird; he didn't want to cause him any further pain, why must he act so and not simply allow himself to submit?

He supposed the chicken was a lot like himself. 

"These are our servants," he heard Montparnasse's voice call from above. Enjolras rolled his eyes. 

_Oh joy. Are we being put on display for another rich lord?_

Still standing, Cosette let out a gasp so loud, Enjolras thought for a moment that perhaps it was that _oh-so-handsome_ Baron that Cosette had developed an incurable crush from afar on weeks earlier that had stopped at their cart. He had been forced to listen as Cosette had gushed on and on about the mysterious Baron with his handsome black hair and his beautiful face and wonderful eyes—and quite frankly, Enjolras disagreed. The Baron sounded nowhere near as handsome as Prince Grantaire was.

_Oh God had he really just thought that?_

Shaking himself out of his rather shocking musings, Enjolras stood back up, chicken in hand, to see what all the fuss was about, all while vowing he would _not_ daydream about those enchanting— _stop it!_ —green eyes for the rest of the day.

When he finally got to his feet, it was with those exact green eyes that his own clashed with. 

_Shit! What in God's name is he doing here?_

Yelping in surprise, he let the chicken slip through his fingers, watching in abject horror as the bird leapt forward, launching himself in the Prince's face. 

The next minute was pandemonium at their cart. Feathers flying, loud squawking, Montparnasse's shrill scream as he jumped far back, the Prince's grunts as he wrestled with the poor bird. Enjolras reached a hand to try and take the chicken back, but was suddenly sent crashing to the ground as Jehan and Cosette placed a hand on either of his shoulders, forcing him behind the cart and away from the gaze of the Prince.

The struggle seemed to continue for a moment more, in which time Enjolras tried to get his breathing to even out. At last, it seemed Jehan was able to get the chicken back safely. Biting his lip, Enjolras sincerely hoped the Prince hadn't been harmed.

The thunderous heeled footsteps headed their way meant his step mother must have seen the entire affair and was rushing over at this very instant. He resisted the urge to sigh. 

"Your Highness, I'm so sorry for all this!" he heard her exclaim, profusely spilling her apologies, even as the Prince assured her there was no harm done and that he was perfectly fine (Enjolras let out a quiet breath of relief.) "What are you doing? Trying to scare the Prince to death?" His step mother's voice sounded quite the bit more controlled than it would have usually been. _The reason,_ Enjolras thought bitterly, _is not that hard to figure out. Why, he's standing right next to her._

"We were startled, that's all," Cosette explained sweetly. 

"Wait, were there just the two of you?" The Prince's confused voice came from above. Gulping, Enjolras burrowed further in himself behind the cart. 

Jehan held out the now-calm bird. 

"And the chicken, Your Highness." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys Enjolras' thoughts that the unwanted attentions of Tholomyes is somehow his fault is something I do NOT support or believe. Harassment like that is NEVER the victim's fault.
> 
> Yes, the whole "is it not with a first look that love starts..." line is paraphrased from the Brick and I take no credit for that line.
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> Talk to me you guys... I CRAVE YOUR INTERACTION.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire manages to track Enjolras down to the Thenardier's manor. Or, supposedly, the Comte Alexandre Lamarque's manor, shared with his cousin the Right Honourable Montparnasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Bit of a shorter chapter this week.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

This had to be one of the most incredible things Enjolras had ever seen. 

Given a very rare break by his step-father, who had taken the rest of the family into town today for some royal event, leaving only the servants, Enjolras and Courfeyrac decided to while away the time by sitting out in the fields, enjoying the gentle breeze. That was, until Enjolras had remembered something the Prince's friend, Combeferre, had said the last time such a breeze was at play. Quietly, he and Courf stole a bit of parchment and thread from the manor, and as best as he could, Enjolras attempted to recreate the strange contraption Combeferre was holding just two days before. 

With a great shout, Enjolras watched as Courf beamed when the contraption held out in the wind, flying steady with the breeze, thread attached held tightly in Courf's grasp. 

"It's floating, Courf, it's actually floating!" he exclaimed delightedly. Beside him, Courfeyrac laughed brightly.

"I don't know what you're so happy about, Enj. You're going to be swimming in manure if they get married," he said, they being the Prince and Montparnasse, clearly not willing to move past their initial conversation topic. 

Enjolras shrugged indifferently. "I don't know why it bothers you so much. _I_ really couldn't care less." 

Courfeyrac glanced over at him and smiled wide. "You're lying!" he chirped in a sing-song voice. "The Prince would end up as your _brother-in-law!_ And you, _Comte Alexandre Lamarque_ , would be bringing them breakfast in bed." 

Enjolras shook his head, though the thought of the Prince being his brother-in-law did make him shudder just a little, something that, judging by his teasing smile, did not go unnoticed by Courf. "But don't you see, Courf? They would move into the palace, while I could stay in the manor and turn things around. That's all that matters," he stated firmly. 

Without letting go of the thread, his best friend nudged his shoulder with his own. "Come on," he teased. "Admit it. You like him!" 

The thing was, though what he showed on the surface was an expression of exasperation at being told the same thing for the hundredth time by his friends (Cosette and Jehan wouldn't stop squealing about it , Pere Valjean looked like he had been about to burst into tears every time he had seen Enjolras—now that he couldn't explain—Eponine… well she had said some particular things that made his face flame and his speech stammer as he shivered and tried for an excuse out of the conversation, and of course, Courfeyrac, in the fashion of best friends, had resorted to good old fashioned harassment) what lied underneath that stoic face was panic. Panic, because as much as he tried to deny it, the constant repetition of the suggestion that he liked the Prince had prompted him to turn it over in his mind, and he figured out with a bit of horror that the more he thought about it, the more he found the idea sticking to him in a way that wouldn't leave him alone. If he thought the way his mind would flash unbidden to images of the Prince before was bad, it was nothing compared to now. To his immense distress, it seemed like now it was the only thing he could think of; a pair of bright green eyes, the memory of strong hands around him holding him close, phantom lips ghosting over the back of his hand. 

Why couldn't he get the Prince out of his head? 

Could he… could he really, possibly, _like_ the Prince? 

Remember, we did say the idea was sticking to him.

This new revelation scared Enjolras; he never had any experience with romantic love. It was all so new to him. What was he supposed to do? It wasn't as if he could act on his newly developed feelings, seeing as he was in reality simply a peasant who would never even be allowed to dine on the same table as the Prince much less marry him and—

Woah woah woah. 

_Marry him?_

When did Enjolras' mind jump there? 

There was a storm raging underneath Enjolras, and, like on most days, he decided to keep it hidden behind his marble mask. 

Turning to Courf, he hummed and replied, "No, no I really don't." 

Courfeyrac snorted. "Right. I believe you. And I suppose if you saw him again, you… you would…" he trailed off, furrowing his eyebrows and squinting at something in the background behind Enjolras.

Ignoring his best friend's sudden change in tone, Enjolras looked him dead in the eyes and told him flatly, "Courf, if I saw him again, I would march straight up to him and say 'Your Highness, my family is your family. Please take them away.'"

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "Really?" He pointed a finger past Enjolras' shoulder. "That's great. You can tell him that right now considering he's headed this way." 

_What?_

Whipping his head around, Enjolras' vision indeed confirmed Courfeyrac's words; Prince Grantaire was riding straight for them, a man Enjolras identified as the Captain of the King's Guard Javert, a few paces behind. Immediately, he felt his muscles seize up in panic. What should he do? The Prince couldn't see him here like this! He had managed to lie his way out of having his cover blown last time, but what possible excuse did he have now? 

_Hurry up, Enjolras!_

With each passing second, the Prince only drew closer to the two of them. It was a miracle he had not spotted Enjolras yet, his eyes instead seemingly rooted to the flying object in the air. 

_Do something! Do something!_

With one last look at the Prince, Enjolras bolted out of the fields and leapt into the bushes of the garden, startling Pere Valjean who was working on the plants there and taking refuge behind his old yet almost supernaturally-strong, buff body. Pere Valjean gave him a skeptical look as he retreated further behind the older man's body, but wisely decided not to comment on it, resuming his gardening casually as the Prince galloped over to where he had just been standing next to Courfeyrac a few moments ago. 

"I'm looking for Signor da Vinci's apprentice," he heard the Prince say. "His name is Combeferre. He's a rather tall man with round glasses and brown hair. Have you seen him?" 

"Combeferre?" Courfeyrac repeated, the name foreign on his tongue. "No, Your Highness, I have not." 

There was silence for a moment before Enjolras heard the Prince say thoughtfully, "But is that not his flying contraption you're holding in your hands at the current moment? Where did you get it?" 

Enjolras panicked. Courfeyrac better not tell him anything. He couldn't bear the punishment if the Prince both found out he wasn't who he claimed he was _and_ if he reported him to his stepparents for stealing from their stash. 

"Your Highness, I got this from, er…" Courfeyrac hesitated for a moment, and Enjolras held his breath, "the Comte Lamarque. He is a friend of his." 

_Courfeyrac you liar! I barely met the man!_

Enjolras heard the Prince inhale sharply. 

"You know him?" he asked breathlessly. Inside his head, Enjolras wondered why the thought of him left the Prince so breathless. There was a pause in which Enjolras guessed Courfeyrac had haphazardly decided to nod in agreement. "Please, I must find him," he said desperately. Why did he sound so desperate? Had Enjolras done something wrong? "Where is he staying?"

_Shit._

What would Courf say? He couldn't exactly lie to the Prince, that could end him with a week in the stocks, and Enjolras never wished that upon his friend. At the same time, he couldn't tell him the truth either, or it would end with _Enjolras_ in the stocks for a lot more than a week, and if it had been any other situation, he would have gladly jumped up and out from his hiding spot and brought the punishment down upon himself rather than Courf, but in this one instance, he hesitated. There was just something about the fact that it was _Prince Grantaire,_ that made him perhaps want to hold onto this charade a little while longer. There was something in the Prince that made him, for once… want to think of himself. 

The thought made Enjolras' head spin. He figured that much out when Pere Valjean reached a hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

In the time he had hesitated from declaring himself, Courfeyrac had begun to speak. "Er… I believe, Your Highness, he is staying with a cousin…the… er…"

_Don't you dare, Courf._

"The Honourable Montparnasse of the House of Thenardier." 

_No!_

Enjolras groaned and let out a curse under his breath, earning him a reproving look from Pere Valjean. Murmuring a quick apology, he buried his head in his hands. Amazing. The Prince now knew he was related to Montparnasse. He would now be able to find him all the easier. How absolutely spectacular. 

It couldn't get much worse than this.

As always, fate decided to prove him wrong.

Poking his head out a bit, Enjolras watched best as he could as the Prince grimaced at Courfeyrac's words. "Hmm. That poses a bit of a problem now, doesn't it?" he muttered. 

_Yes, yes it does! Never approach the manor and you won't ever have to face that problem in your life!_

Enjolras was mentally congratulating himself for this little victory when Courfeyrac's next words stopped his blood cold. 

"It's not exactly a problem, Your Highness," he started cautiously. _Oh no, Courf, what are you doing now?_ "I happen to know that he is… uh…alone, by himself…" _Courf you better not finish that sentence,_ "at this very moment."

Enjolras collapsed backwards into the bushes. This could not be happening. Not only did the Prince know where he lived, but Courf, that smug jerk, had told him that he was alone. Now really, why did he have to add in that last part? There was no denying it now; the Prince was obviously going to see through his ruse and discover he was a fraud. Enjolras was doomed. 

Still there, the Prince hummed approvingly. "By himself, alone, you say?" he repeated in a tone that made Enjolras shiver. "Excellent. Thank you for the chat." The noises of thunderous hooves against the ground signaled the departure of the Prince and the Captain, leaving just Courfeyrac out in the field. Once he affirmed the coast was clear, Enjolras rose on his shaky legs and stepped back into the fields. Courfeyrac turned and gave him a dazzling grin. 

Enjolras let out a shrill battle cry and launched himself at him.

Tackling him to the ground, they both rolled and rolled until Enjolras came to a stop and loomed over him, pinning his wrists down. "Courf what the hell!" he hissed. "You little traitor! Why would you add in that last part?" 

Courfeyrac, despite being on the receiving end of his ferocious glare, laughed brightly. "Well someone had to get the action going! Why not me?" 

"Action?" he repeated incredulously. "What action? There is no action, Courf!" 

Courfeyrac freed one of his hands and booped Enjolras' nose lightly. " _No action_ he says. You're adorable, you know that?"

Enjolras let out a noise of frustration _(no it wasn't a whine, stop telling everyone that Courf!_ ) "Shut up Courf! Do you have any idea what you've just done? The Prince is headed for the manor _right this very instant!"_

Pursing his lips, Courfeyrac morphed his face into one of seriousness. "That is an urgent matter," he remarked. "I suggest, then, we should get you to the manor." Before he could realize what was happening, Courfeyrac rolled him underneath himself before hauling him off the ground and throwing his wriggling body over his shoulder like a sack of onions. Enjolras screeched. 

"COURF WHAT ARE YOU DOING? PUT ME THE HELL DOWN!" 

"Well you said yourself, we need to get you to the manor as quick as we can!" And with that, Courfeyrac began to sprint towards the manor, Enjolras screaming as he writhed, banging his fists against Courfeyrac's back and cussing out his best friend as he demanded he put him down, then choosing instead to try hold on so he didn't tumble onto the ground. 

As the view of the fields grew more and more distant, he could tell they were gaining closer to the manor. He felt himself tumble onto the ground as Courfeyrac set him on his feet once more; he stumbled into a bewildered Cosette's arms. 

"The Prince is coming! You two need to get our little Enj all dolled up for his arrival!" Courfeyrac explained breathlessly. Wide-eyed, Cosette and Jehan nodded before dragging Enjolras off inside to have him fitted and dressed more like the Comte he was in front of the Prince and less like the servant he was in front of the rest of the world. 

________________________________________________________

Enjolras had no idea people could become so aggressive when doing others’ makeup. In his head, he made a mental note to stay away from Cosette and Jehan when they held white powder lead and rouge in their hands. Stiff in his noble clothes, he staggered out the door frame of the manor just as the Prince pulled up on horseback in front of him. With a great leap, the Prince dismounted onto the ground—and wow did he look good doing it. He looked as if he had much practice doing so, athletic on top of everything else Enjolras was coming to admire about him, like his brilliant mind and his willingness to listen and his beautiful eyes and his smile and the way he looked at Enjolras and— _what was Enjolras thinking what was he doing he needs to stop thinking about the Prince and_ — _OH MY GOD HE’S COMING HERE._

“Monsieur le Comte! I have finally found you! Your game is over!” he teased as he strolled over to a stop in front of him.

Enjolras squawked. 

The Prince gave him a surprised look before he began to laugh. 

_Holy hell. Get yourself together Enjolras._

Face flaming, Enjolras cleared his throat. “Your Highness,” he muttered. “What an unexpected surprise.” As he wrung his hands together, he composed a mental list of all the different ways he could kill Courfeyrac. 

“I’m sorry it had to be so unexpected. I was afraid that if you caught word of my arrival, you would try and run.” The Prince raised his eyebrows. 

Enjolras looked away. “Was there a specific reason you had come, Sire?”

The Prince shifted from foot to foot. “Well, I was wondering, actually, if you’d like to… to…” Enjolras looked at him expectantly.

“Yes?” he asked, hope oddly kindling in his heart. Why? What was he hoping for? Enjolras used to think other people’s behaviour was the most confusing thing he had come across, but as he unfortunately realized now, that really wasn’t the case. He had no possible idea what was going through his own mind and heart right now; in an odd twist of reality, _he_ had become the one most confusing to himself. 

The Prince ran an anxious hand through his hair as he gazed at Enjolras almost desperately. “...to, uhm…” 

“Yes?” he repeated once more, this time just the slightest bit eagerly. _Yes? Anything. I’d love to do anything with you. Just, please ask._

The Prince sighed defeatedly and turned tired eyes on Enjolras. “I was just wondering if you had my green coat. I neglected to ask for it back the last time we met, and it seems you had forgotten you were wearing it as you ran off.” 

_Oh._

The coat. Yes of course. How could Enjolras be so stupid? He’d come for the coat.

Why would he have come to see Enjolras? Who was he to him anyways?

Besides, it wasn’t as if Enjolras was definitely hoping the Prince had come solely to see him, because the Prince may have been interested in him; he hadn’t hoped that, never.

“Oh.” Enjolras deflated visibly. The Prince reached a hand out as if to put it on his shoulder, before deciding against it and letting it drop awkwardly to his side. “Yes of course. It was my mistake, Your Highness, allow me a moment to fetch it for you right now.” Turning around, he trudged back inside, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. 

_What are you so disappointed for? Did you really think he had expressed a real interest in you? He was simply being courteous, and it would do well for you to remember that. Keep to yourself; you’re not a Comte, you’re a peasant servant. Do not transgress your limits with the Prince._

Upon his arrival inside, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Cosette all swarmed him.

“What did he say—”

“Did you really leave the Prince of France standing outside there, waiting—”

“Why’d he come? It was for you, wasn’t it? Oh I can’t wait to tell Eponine all about this, it’s all so exciting—”

“He came for the coat.” The others fell silent. 

“The… the coat?” Cosette asked unsurely, as if she hadn’t heard properly the first time. “What do you mean he came for the coat?” 

Enjolras headed down to the basement towards his hidden chest, the rest following, confused. Opening the chest, he gathered the rich material in his hands, holding it close for a moment. 

“I mean he came for the coat,” he explained quietly. “Not for me. He wanted the coat back. I had it with me. That’s it.” 

Behind him, Courfeyrac reached a hand out, but was stopped subtly by Jehan, who shook their head and beckoned for the others to head back up and give him a moment.

_He came for the coat. So get back up and give it to him._

Enjolras hugged the coat close to his chest and inhaled for a moment, allowing himself to feel for one moment—just one—vulnerable. Yes, alright maybe he had hoped the Prince had come for him—just for him. Was it so wrong for him to feel like that? Wasn’t he human too? Couldn’t he have personal wishes and dreams and goals? Couldn’t he hope that maybe, just maybe, the Prince may have wanted to see him? Was he really expected to always remain so stoic?

Yes.

Because that’s the only surefire way to prevent yourself from getting hurt.

A mask up once more, he emerged from the basement down below, and out the manor, where the Prince stood waiting. It seemed the man had undergone a transformation of some sorts; jaw set in determination, eyes fierce in their resolve, he turned resolutely as Enjolras approached him with the coat.

“Your Highness, your coat, I have it here for you—”

“Comte, listen to me,” he took hold of Enjolras’ hands, startling him into dropping the coat onto the ground. With a cry, he tried to stoop to pick it up, but the Prince’s hands kept him up and close. “Ignore it. You must realize now that I have not come simply for the coat.”

Could he possibly be… 

No.

He couldn’t… could he?

“You confuse me, Sire. You had told me you had come simply for the coat. What else could you possibly want?” he asked breathlessly. Oh God, was he so far gone that he was _breathless_ now? He was starting to act like all those lovers Jehan constantly composed poems about. 

The Prince seemed to falter for a second, before tightening his grip on Enjolras’ hands and drawing him close; Enjolras could practically feel the warmth radiate from his body. “I fear the preparations for my Father’s ball have rather suffocated me. I am bound for the Franciscan Monastery, to seek some air to breathe. Word says the library there is quite impressive, quite the sight for anyone who seeks knowledge.” Prince Grantaire cocked his head to the side. “You seem to be very fond of reading, Comte.” Stepping closer, he bore his gaze straight down into Enjolras’ eyes. Enjolras’ heart beat frantically underneath his chest, and in the back of his mind, he hoped the Prince wouldn’t brush over his pulse point on his wrists, lest he find out just exactly what Enjolras was feeling. “I’d like for you to come with me.” 

_Come with him?_

Come with the Prince? To a library? Oh it seemed a dream come true! How he would love to go, to spend time alone with him, to allow himself to get lost in the world of the philosophy of the greats, all with the Prince by his side… 

But why did the Prince want him to come? Could it be true, then? Were his friends right? Was there any chance that the Prince might, possibly, _reciprocate his feelings?_ Could he risk finding out? 

“Sire…” 

“I beg of you, Comte, do not refuse me this one thing. Grant me permission to spend one afternoon, at least one, with you.” 

Enjolras bit his lip; what if his stepparents returned and he hadn’t arrived back in time? He wanted to go so bad, but he couldn’t exactly leave behind his duties either. Who else was there to take care of them?

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his friends and Pere Valjean spying out a bush, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Courfeyrac gave him a thumbs-up and a cheeky wink, for which he had to resist the urge to face-palm. Turning his head just the slightest, he looked at them all, seemingly asking permission. Eagerly, they all nodded, Jehan even seemingly mouthing _go or else._

It was one afternoon. Surely it couldn’t do that much harm. 

“Comte?” 

He snapped his eyes back to the Prince who awaited his answer.

“Come with me. I give you my word, I shall make it worth your time.” He lifted both of Enjolras’ hands and pressed a searing kiss to his knuckles. Enjolras’ breath caught in his throat, and he could’ve sworn he saw Cosette fall over, silently squealing.

Heart racing, Enjolras hoped the blush on his cheeks was not as bold as he could feel it burn, as he breathed, “Yes. Yes. Of course.” 

A genuine smile bloomed on the Prince’s face, bold and bright, and sent Enjolras’ heart trapezing inside his body. 

“Excellent.” Letting go of his hands, the Prince bent to pick up the dropped coat, dusting it off roughly, before reaching over and draping it over Enjolras’ form, surprising him. 

“Sire, your coat—why are you—” he started confusedly.

“I think you should keep it,” the Prince began to button it up like he did the last time. “I have dozens of coats, Comte. One less makes no difference to me. And I think it looks a lot better on you than me.” 

Enjolras flushed and crossed his arms over his chest, fidgeting with the sleeves that hung far past his hands. “It… looks silly on me, Sire,” he said, embarrassed. “It is far too wide and much too long for me to wear.” Which, to be fair, was actually true—at least in Enjolras’ eyes. The cloth hung down almost to his knees, and seemed to swallow Enjolras whole. 

The Prince grinned and gently reached out, brushing a strand of hair back from Enjolras’ face. “It would be quite a challenge to find anything that would make you look silly, fair Comte. The brilliance of your beauty seems to transform even the dullest of rags to shimmering silk.”

The compliment left Enjolras gaping. No one had ever thought to compliment him like that before. With the Thenardiers, to think he would ever be praised was an outrageous fantasy. He would sooner become Prince of France than receive a good comment from either of his step-parents or step-brother. Out on the streets, he was usually treated more like property of his step parents rather than a person, always spoken about with a filthy tongue that in no way constituted a compliment or looked at with a leer. Sure, his friends had told him enough that he was a good-looking man, but that had always been in a friendly-way he had never thought much to consider. With the Prince, however, it felt different. It was unexpected… and it was… pleasant. 

"Close your mouth, Comte. You'll swallow a fly," the Prince chuckled. 

Enjolras swallowed reflexively. "It certainly isn't fair, Sire. You know my weakness, and I have yet to learn of yours." 

The Prince looked caught off-guard for a moment before laughing. Furrowing his eyebrows, Enjolras bit at his lip and chewed; what did he say wrong? 

Brushing a light knuckle over Enjolras' burning cheek, he murmured, "I would have thought it would have been obvious. You're a bright man, Comte, surely you'd figure it out. No matter, you'll realize soon enough." This answer did not dispel any of Enjolras' confusion. He was supposed to know? How? What about this was so obvious? Was he missing something?

Turning his head, the Prince called out, "Captain Javert! I shall have no need of my horse or your services." Looking back at Enjolras, he slid a heavy arm around Enjolras' waist, pulling him forward, Enjolras letting out a soft _oof!_ as he was pulled up against a warm, muscled and solid chest. "For today," he smiled, "I shall simply be ‘Grantaire.’ Not ‘Sire.’ Not ‘Your Highness.’” He backtracked to where a carriage awaited, eyes failing to leave Enjolras' wide ones. "Simply Grantaire." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Enjolras and Courfeyrac's interactions was probably my favourite part of this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> Guys... TALK TO ME...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a date! Misadventures in the forest and library make for a fantastic breeding ground for a perfect romance... if only one of them weren't lying about who they were...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I think this was my favourite chapter to write, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Grantaire felt alive. 

No, he wasn't doing anything much too out of the ordinary; he wasn't drinking obsessively, he wasn't running hard enough to feel his heart pound in his chest, he wasn't jogging or fencing or playing tennis. 

All he was doing was watching the Comte.

And yet, what passion.

Grantaire had never seen a man so idealistic, so determined, so brilliant in his resolve as Alexandre. As they walked through the halls of the massive library of the Franciscan Monastery, he listened in as Alexandre orated on and on about the plight of the poor, about the unnecessary demands of the nobility and their selfish need to live life with copious amounts of lavishness while the serfs suffered, about the treatment of the lower classes by those of noble blood. The conviction, the faith with which he spoke, it was almost enough to make Grantaire, the hardened cynic, believe.

How could anyone resist believing in what the Comte believed in? When he spoke of his ideals, he glowed golden like the god Apollo the Italians were always painting. His charisma was infectious; eyes gazing far into the distance, a brilliant smile as he preached his beliefs— his visions of the future—how could one not be inspired enough to believe with him, to join him and to fight with him?

This man was going to make a difference, and Grantaire, skeptical he may be of Alexandre's beliefs, could only hope he'd give him permission to help him make that impact.

He knew it had been a good idea to tell the Comte to refer to him strictly as "Grantaire" rather than any of his royal titles; almost as if a barrier had been broken, the Comte let down his guards and let all his speech flow unrestricted, speaking to Grantaire from one human to another. Or, as what Marius, the passionate lover he was (especially after he had caught sight of that worker girl weeks ago—Grantaire should really ask how it was going with that new craze of his) would probably say, _a connection of souls_ — _to feel the soul on fire._

"All these books, Si—" Grantaire looked at him, "—Grantaire, it's such a—a wonderful sight! So much knowledge right here ready to learn—you know the education of the common man is one of the most important factors in building up a strong society. Education is light." 

Grantaire smiled at him and gestured in a sweeping manner with the hand he wasn't using to hold Alexandre's own to the hundreds of books surrounding them, slotted neatly in the shelves. 

"Pick one," he suggested. Alexandre looked at him hesitantly. With an encouraging smile, he nodded and gestured once again. 

The nobleman bit at his lip, a nervous-tell, Grantaire had come to recognize. What could he be nervous about? It was just picking a book. Just as he was about to open his mouth and ask _what's wrong,_ his hand was tugged along as Alexandre made his way through the aisles with purpose in his step before he finally came to a halt, seemingly having found what he was looking for. Pulling it out, Grantaire glimpsed a very familiar cover. 

" _Julius Excluded From Heaven_?" he murmured. The Comte nodded cautiously. 

"I think it's an excellent commentary on the practices of the Catholic Church, and distinguishes well between what makes a true Vicar of Christ and all those who simply pose and end up practicing against the morals of Christianity. Erasmus did a thorough job of exposing the flaws of the Church, and it makes me wonder how different our nation would be if perhaps the clergy were not to have such influence over us."

Caught momentarily off-guard, Grantaire simply stared agape. How is it that a single man could be so passionate about so much all at once? 

"You very much enjoy the discussion of social philosophies and civil justice, don't you?" 

The Comte nodded eagerly. "Oh yes, I think it's fascinating—to study our society, to determine what's wrong, what's unjust, to address the flaws and fix them— it's certainly much needed." 

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. "And where did you learn to develop such a fascination for books of philosophy, if I may be permitted to ask?" 

Alexandre's eyes took on a glassy, far-away look. He seemed to lose himself a little in his thoughts as he replied, "Well, when I was young, my Father… my Papa, would stay up late and read to me. He read such books of social philosophy—he was very dedicated to helping the less fortunate—the abased of our kingdom—and he instilled those righteous values in me too by having me fall asleep to the sound of his voice as he read the words of the humanists and other philosophers." 

Something panged in Grantaire's heart. From the way Alexandre spoke of his Father, it was quite clear that… "And I assume your Father is… no more?" he inquired gently, rubbing light circles on the hand he was holding.

Alexandre shook his head, his shoulders slumped over just the tiniest fraction more. _Keeping a check on his emotions,_ Grantaire realized, frowning; to bottle up your emotions wasn't a very healthy thing to do, he knew enough from Joly's constant lectures about it. He thought about drawing him in for a hug; the last time he did so, Alexandre seemed to have relaxed into it. He wondered if he did it now whether he would do the same. 

With his hand, he drew the Comte close into his chest and wrapped his arms around his frail figure. For a moment, Alexandre seemed to stiffen, but his body soon melted into the embrace; Grantaire felt the other man's fingers curl in the cloth of his doublet. 

"No, he's not," Alexandre replied softly. “He died when I was eight. Thomas More's _Utopia_ was the last book he brought home and read to me."

“And that explains why you quote the book so much, then.”

He felt Alexandre’s head bob under his chin, nodding in agreeance. “I would rather hear his voice again than any other sound in the world,” he admitted, voice strong despite it’s quietness. Grantaire pulled away in astonishment. Even on such a sensitive subject, the conviction the Comte spoke with was, quite frankly, incredible. How could one single man hold so much passion in his blood, in his body, in his soul? Grantaire had felt that hope in himself burn out so long ago; to see it again ignited so bright and bold in another made him feel as if he too, believed once again in that which he had abandoned.

“Is something wrong, Si—Grantaire?” 

Still staring in amazement, he explained, “No…nothing is wrong. It’s just—in all my years of study, not one tutor has ever demonstrated the… the passion you have shown me over the past few days." He traced a thumb along the arc of the Comte's sharp cheekbone. "You have more conviction in one belief than I have in my entire being." 

Alexandre's eyes fluttered shut as he let out a contented sigh, and Grantaire was suddenly overcome with the need to provide for the man every comfort so that he may be able to hear that sigh again and again. "How else can you live life if not with passion, Grantaire?" he asked breathlessly. "If we are to change France—our world—we must do so by believing the world around us is worth changing, that we have the strength to do so. Passion is progress."

_How else can you live life if not with passion?_

There were all sorts of different types of passion. Passion in your ideals as Alexandre had displayed; passion in your work as Feuilly always demonstrated; passion in the pursuit of knowledge like Combeferre felt. 

Love too, was a sort of passion.

And like a _coup de foudre,_ this realization hit Grantaire as he watched the man melt once more in his arms, burrowing closer and looking at him with eyes so impossibly blue Grantaire felt he would never be able to do them justice were he to put them on canvas.

He tightened his arms around him and smiled. "Indeed. Tell me more." 

________________________________________________________

As they exited the banquet hall, Eponine felt her Mother push her forward.

“Make haste, Eponine, Montparnasse. It’s now or never.” With a crooked finger, she pointed towards Queen Floreal who made her way towards her waiting carriage. Wait. Her Mother really expected her to just walk up to the _Queen_ and start talking?

As she waved her hand impatiently, it seemed she did. Amazing. 

While she grumbled about it, her brother seemed to have no qualms about it, even seemingly having concocted a plan to gain Her Highness' attention. Stealthily coming up behind her, quick as a practiced thief, he snatched an expensive pin off her hair, Eponine wincing as it all came tumbling down, though shockingly not drawing the Queen's attention. Montparnasse a few moments pass before clearing his throat and tapping Her Highness on the shoulder. 

Sinking into a low bow, he murmured, "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you seemed to have dropped this." He held out the golden hair pin.

 _You lying bastard,_ she thought, though she was still secretly impressed.

The Queen stared in shock as her hand flew to where her hair fell in curls past her neck, now realizing what was missing. "My goodness!" she exclaimed. "I hadn't even noticed it was gone!" Gingerly plucking it from his hands, she twirled it around her fingers as she said thoughtfully, "It is a rare person indeed who would return such a precious keepsake. Thank you child." 

Eponine rolled her eyes at the words, watching as her brother kissed the Queen's hand and remarked, "You are too magnanimous, Your Highness." 

The Queen turned to mutter something at her carriage mates before turning back to say, "How very kind. Montparnasse, bring your Mother and your sister tomorrow. We shall have a chat, you and I."

Montparnasse plastered on a charming smile. "As you wish."

________________________________________________________

"Well this is a rather unfortunate situation—though come to think of it, most of life is simply one big unfortunate situation we're forced to live through, is it not?" 

Alexandre turned to him, his nose scrunched. "Must you always remain so pessimistic about everything?"

Grantaire grinned. "My fair Comte," Alexandre blushed, "pessimism is the only way to ensure life doesn't disappoint you. It's better to take care not to believe in anything rather than have your hopes dashed irreparably.

Alexandre's eyebrows furrowed. "You can't live life without believing in _something._ Hope is what keeps people alive. I once read in a myth of some sorts that no matter what, hope stays with us until the end."

Grantaire had read that myth too. It was the myth of Pandora, and what he remembered was that after Pandora, curious she was, had unleashed all such horrors upon humanity, hope had remained until the very end, because hope would not leave unless you chose to let it go. 

It seemed Alexandre would always keep his jar safely guarded in his heart. 

Alexandre must have been ranting again in the time he zoned out, because he was staring at Grantaire expectantly. The corner of Grantaire's mouth lifted. 

"What is it?" he asked.

 _My Love,_ he added in his head. 

"I asked whether you really believed in anything," Alexandre repeated with a frown. 

_I believe in you._

"The only surety in life, I can proudly state, is my full glass," he replied with a teasing grin. 

Alexandre huffed and turned away. "Be serious." 

Grantaire winked. "I am wild."

Alexandre opened his mouth to argue, but cut himself off as the royal guard who had (forcibly) accompanied them called out, "We'll head back to the monastery at once." 

As Grantaire went to answer back that the plan sounded fine, Alexandre called back, "And we shall continue on foot." 

Grantaire swivelled around to gape at him in incredulity. 

"On foot?" he exclaimed. "But it's a half a day's walk!"

Alexandre quirked an eyebrow. "Why, you don't think your royal feet can handle the work?" he challenged. 

Grantaire raised his own eyebrows in return. "Contrary to what you may think, Comte, I've actually taken part in a lot of physical activity. I fence. I box. I play tennis. It is not _my_ feet I worry about."

Alexandre snorted and rolled his eyes. "I'll be perfectly fine. It's not like I haven't had worse before." 

The Comte's eyes widened a fraction as he realized what he had just said. _Worse?_ Grantaire wondered. What could a nobleman possibly have to do in his life, and why would they know what something worse than walking half a day felt like? 

Briefly, he remembered the rough feeling of the Comte's hands on his. 

"Well… I mean… I mean I don't… I, uhm…" the Comte stuttered on as Grantaire regarded him with narrowed eyes. There was something he was missing for sure.

"You're bluffing, aren't you?" 

Alexandre's eyes went full-blown wide now. 

"Bl—bluffing?" he stuttered. "No—never—I'm not—I mean I'm—" he swallowed nervously and looked as if he were trying to visibly calm himself. "Bluffing… about what, Sire?" 

Grantaire frowned. Why did he revert back to titles? The day was not yet over; and what could he possibly be nervous about?

"About the walking. You don't really expect me to believe a nobleman has ever walked such a distance before in his life." 

Alexandre froze for a second before he seemed to force a laugh from his throat. "Oh yes!" he exclaimed with obvious relief. "I… yes… you've caught me. I've… I've never done so much physical work before," he finished, wincing slightly at the end. Grantaire regarded him for a minute more before deciding to drop it. 

"You've never done such a thing before, and yet you think you can do it now?" he asked flatly. Alexandre looked at him indignantly. 

"Just because I've…I've never done something like this before," he winced again, "doesn't mean I can't ever try. If I never try I'll never know." 

Grantaire scoffed. "And if you happen to collapse of exhaustion? What then, Alexandre? I shall not allow such a thing to happen to you." 

The Comte's indignation only grew. "I am not a maiden in need of protecting! I am perfectly capable on my own! I will _not_ collapse after a little bit of walking, and I can handle myself!" he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. After a moment, he hesitatingly added, "Although, let it be said that maidens are in _no way_ weak either. They're quite dangerous actually. And strong. Exceptionally strong." 

Grantaire would have liked to ask Alexandre what kind of experiences he'd been through to speak like that, but thought better to, for once, stick with the subject. 

Stepping up closer, he regarded the stubborn man. He held himself proud and tall (a feat that impressed Grantaire considering how short the Comte was in comparison to himself), arms crossed over his chest, looking for all Grantaire cared immortal and powerful like that of Apollo himself. 

But every man is mortal, and mortality means human qualities and traits—strengths, but also weaknesses. 

"Alright. You're set on us walking. I have no problems. However—" Grantaire stooped and, before the Comte could realize what he was doing, slid one arm underneath the backs of his knees and the other across his back, lifting him off the ground and cradling him close to his chest. Alexandre shrieked (well, it was more of a squeal, but Grantaire was quite sure that if he were to mention _that_ on top of everything else, news of the Prince's murder rather than his engagement would reach his friends) and squirmed in his grip. "—I insist that you don't walk. _This_ is an effective solution. We both get what we want." 

Alexandre continued to twist and squirm in his grip, pushing as he tried to escape the strong man's hold. "Put me down!" he hissed. "Grantaire," he smiled a little at the dropped title, "I demand you put me down at once!" 

Grantaire ignored him in favour of beginning the long trek back. 

"—Not a damsel in distress! I don't need saving—I can walk—oh you jerk why won't you listen— _put me down I can walk!"_

"Stop moving or I'll drop you," he remarked casually. Immediately, the Comte stilled, instead seemingly accepting his fate as he clung tight to the fabric of Grantaire's doublet and rested his head against his heart. 

Grantaire wondered if he could feel it swell twice its size.

________________________________________________________

“Honestly! The Prince! Missing from weekly tea! It’s a scandal!” 

Eponine rolled her eyes. Missing nobility tea wasn’t that big of a deal, and yet the way her Mother acted, it seemed to be the crime of the century. She could relate to the Prince; she too would do whatever she could to ditch tea time spent with the haughty nobility. 

Her Father turned sharp eyes around the house. “Where’s Enjolras?”

Eponine stayed wisely silent; as soon as their carriage had arrived back at the house, Cosette had pulled her aside and told her everything that had transpired while she was gone, and while she was absolutely thrilled for her step-brother, she couldn’t help but feel a prickle fear of what may happen if her parents were to ever find out where he had gone.

Montparnasse turned up his nose. “He’s probably picking _wildflowers_ again.”

Eponine opened her mouth to argue when Jehan and Cosette came walking nervously into the room. 

“Begging your pardons, Monsieur, Madame, but the mirror in your bedchamber… did either of you move it?” Jehan asked timidly.

Her Father narrowed his eyes. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

“Well… it’s,” they hesitated, “uhm, also missing.”

Her Mother put her hand on her heart and gawked as her Father barked out, “Well then that too shall come out of your pay!” 

________________________________________________________

“You know, Jehan, you really need to stop telling them when things go missing, or soon enough _we’ll_ be paying _them_ to work.”

“Good thing I didn’t mention the tapestries.”

________________________________________________________

It felt rather like floating, he supposed he could say.

Well, floating if you could ignore the rise and fall of the chest you were cradled up against and the occasional bump in your road every now and then.

Was it wrong for him to enjoy it?

Although, he supposed even if he was enjoying it, it wasn’t exactly obvious with the way he gripped the cloth of the Pri—Grantaire’s doublet tight until his knuckles turned white like it was a lifeline as Grantaire carried him along the forest path. 

“You’re very purposeful in your steps Si—Grantaire. How is it that you know how to get back to the castle all the way from here? I could hardly tell myself,” he wondered as Grantaire carried him over a river, balancing precariously on the rocky steps seemingly made for the purpose of crossing.

Grantaire chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated in his chest and made Enjolras’ nerves stand on end. “I could find my way back to the castle with my eyes closed, Comte. I suppose I was born with a bit of magic—" Enjolras gawked at the word—"there; I can tell France and it’s countryside like the back of my hand.”

Enjolras frowned. “Grantaire, if you’ve asked me not to use titles today, then why insist on using mine?” 

Grantaire glanced down at him and smiled. “So you would insist I call you Alexandre, then?” 

_I’d insist you call me Enjolras, but that could never happen, not in the way I’d want it to._

“Yes,” he replied, voice hollow. Casting his eyes as he watched the flow of the water beneath them, he continued, “I’d like for you to call me… Alexandre.”

Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows and halted, jolting Enjolras and prompting him to glance back up. “Is something wrong?”

Sighing, Enjolras thought, _there’s so much wrong_ — _but I can’t exactly tell you, now can I?_ How many times had he let his name linger on the tip of his tongue, impulsively ready to tell Grantaire who he really was—what he really was—only to stop and hold himself knowing that he would lose the Prince’s favour—his affection, Enjolras had earlier finally allowed himself to accept—and earn punishment rather than praise for his honesty? How many times had he thought that maybe the Prince was different and that he could tell him, only to think of what happened the last time he raised his voice against someone of higher standing, his step-father namely, and refrain from doing so? Even as he let the Prince hold him, touch him, speak freely with him; even as he told the Prince about his Papa, who he held so close in his heart, he knew he could never allow himself to get attached. How could he? If he were to continue on like this with Grantaire, what would come next? Fate forbid—what if he were to propose marriage, or even to keep him close in the castle? There was no way he wouldn’t end up exposed if that were to happen. He would be discovered and discarded.

Princes didn’t marry servants. Enjolras hated it, hated the fact that there were certain people who were seen as bigger, better, and more valuable than him, but it was a present truth, one that he couldn’t immediately change, one that might not change, one that dictated who he was in regards to Grantaire, and it would hurt less if he could just accept the facts. Focusing on the manor was the priority right now; when Grantaire inevitably ends up choosing Montparnasse as the Prince Consort, he would finally be able to shift his focus onto the changes he could implement back at the Thenardier manor, improve the lives of his friends, and work from there. 

Grantaire did not fit in that picture. He had to push him away. 

And yet, at the present moment, why could he not help but hold on tighter and pull him closer?

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Grantaire smiled and quirked an eyebrow. “ _I’m_ the one who’s carrying _you_ and yet it seems _you’re_ the one who’s exhausted. Would you like to stop and sit for a while?"

Forcing a smile, Enjolras nodded. “Yes… I think it would be nice if we could stop for a while. For your sake, I mean,” he added hastily. “I’m not tired, but after walking for so long, surely you must be?” 

Grantaire snorted. “You underestimate me. I’ve walked a lot longer, in worse conditions. Drunk, hungover, tired, sleep deprived—Joly beat me over the head for that one—injured, you name it."

“It concerns me that you’ve found yourself in such situations, but I can’t help but ask—is that what I’ve been reduced to? A condition?”

“If you keep going on about the inequalities in our social hierarchy, then perhaps yes.”

“My mistake," he apologized sarcastically. "I told you I would walk myself.”

“And I told you I would not allow it.” Heading back to the river, he set Enjolras down upon a rock as he said, “Freshen up a little. The river is safe to drink from.” 

Shedding the green coat he still had on—for the day was still hot and the sun was still overbearing—Enjolras skipped over the rock and headed into the thicket of the forest. There, he spotted a growth of wildflowers and smiled, picking five of the most unique for his friends back at home. Briefly, his mind flashed to Grantaire. 

_Push him away!_ the voice in his head screamed.

After a moment’s hesitation, he picked a sixth flower, by far what he thought was the prettiest in the growth, and pocketed it separately from the rest.

“Alexandre! Stay where you are!”

When had Enjolras ever been one to do as he was told? 

Cautiously, he stepped out of the thicket in the direction Grantaire’s sharp voice had come from and… oh. Enjolras had never even seen a robbery take place, let alone be at the forefront of it. So when he was greeted with the sight of a band of robbers surrounding them, weapons drawn, he didn’t exactly know what course of action to take. Pere Valjean’s tales of escape from certain— _ah_ —situations—were the stuff of legends, and yet when he could’ve used that knowledge the most, it seemed to have disappeared from his mind.

“Who are they?” he whispered subtly.

Grantaire looked at him grimly. “A band of thieves. I stopped them from stealing a painting once. Seems they didn’t really appreciate the gesture.”

The robber in front of him—evidently the ringleader of their rag-tag group—bent over and swept up the coat he had left on the ground. “I thank you for this fine garment, Monsieur,” he said, grinning.

Indignant rage stirred inside him. Who did this man think he was to try and steal his clothes right in front of him? Enjolras acknowledged that there were certain situations in which people had to resort to stealing so they could continue on for another day, but it was clear this thief and his little band of “merry men” were out to steal for fun, for greed, and Enjolras would have none of it. He would not allow himself to be made a victim so easily—he already did enough of that back at the manor.

Holding his head high, he looked the thief hard in the eye, and in a commanding tone, called out, “You will give me back my coat, Sir.”

Beside him, Grantaire flung out an arm and tucked him behind him. “Let him go,” he nodded his head in Enjolras’ direction. “Your quarrel is with me not him. Allow him to pass.” His words prompted Enjolras to roll his eyes. _Still thinks I’m a damsel in distress._ Well he wasn’t and he needed to make that point very clear. Huffing, he placed himself equally beside Grantaire and crossed his arms, standing tall and proud; these men had no right over his fear.

“I insist you return my things at once!” he asserted fiercely, eyes blazing. “And since you deprive me of my escort, I demand a horse as well!” 

At his tone, the robber cowed. Trying to keep up appearances for his group, however, he cracked a smile and responded, “Monsieur, you may have anything you can carry.”

Enjolras was not convinced. “May I have your word on that, Sir?”

The robber gave a little bow and replied, “On my word of thieves honour, _thick as thieves_ , you may have whatever you can carry.” 

Enjolras bit his lip. Whatever he could carry… 

He stole a glance at the Prince, who looked like he could crush him with his weight. Enjolras had never really had much arm strength, even under the constant work he did around the manor. 

Well. It wasn’t as if the Thenardiers hadn’t made him carry heavier loads before despite that. 

Stepping forward, he first snatched the coat back out of the robber’s hands, draping it over himself once more as he approached Grantaire, who regarded him with a quizzical look (though he didn’t know it, that quizzical look successfully hid the underlying look of awe and enrapturement.)

_Okay Enjolras. You can do this._

_One._

He stooped down.

_Two._

He grabbed behind Grantaire’s knees.

_Three!_

With a deep inhale, he lifted the Prince, who let out a surprised yelp, clean off the ground and across his shoulders, struggling under his weight as he attempted to straighten up. Wheezing, he called in a strained voice, “I bid you good day, Sir,” and promptly turned, staggering away on shaky legs. 

Behind him, he caught the sound of uproarious laughter as he assumed the robber tried to catch his breath. “Wait!” he cried out, clearly still trying to compose himself. “Come back, please! I’ll give you a horse!”

Enjolras continued on his way. 

________________________________________________________

“I want to be informed the minute that boy returns! Is that understood?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

________________________________________________________

“I have never played this game before.”

“And yet you’re already so good at it. Is there anything you do not excel in, Alexandre?” 

Enjolras grinned. It turns out, the band of robbers—they called themselves _Patron-Minette_ —weren’t so bad at all. Apparently, they were refugees from neighbouring England, and had fled to France to avoid persecution. Once their leader—Claquesous was his name—had managed to catch up to Enjolras, (which, to be honest, wasn’t very hard—he managed twenty steps) he felt a hand on his shoulder and was given a formal apology with an invitation to join them for their dinner by the campfire

And so here he was, sitting on a toppled tree acting as a bench, playing an interesting sort of game with Grantaire. It was quite peculiar; on the count of three, you would shape your hand either into the shape of a fist that indicated a rock, laid your hand flat to imitate a piece of paper, or stretch out two fingers to make a sign of scissors. Rock beat up scissors, paper covered up rock, and scissors cut paper. Apparently the game was called _rock, paper, scissors,_ and Grantaire had informed him that his friends had shown him the game. 

“Blast! Beat again!” Grantaire cried as Enjolras bore his fist down upon Grantaire’s “scissors.” Enjolras honest to God _giggled._

“Does the monarchy concede, then?” he challenged playfully. 

Grantaire looked thoughtful at his words. “Someday,” he mused, “maybe yes.”

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows, shocked at his words. The Prince of France, talk about a future without the King? 

“You can’t… you can’t possibly mean that, Grantaire,” he murmured. Grantaire raised his eyebrows, amused.

“I thought you of all people would share my sentiments."

Enjolras nodded, then quickly shook his head. "But I don't understand; you're royalty, you're the Prince, _you're next in line for the throne!_ How could _you_ envision a future free of the monarchy?" 

Grantaire sighed. "Alexandre, I have no desire to be King." 

Enjolras' mouth twisted. How could he not possibly understand the privilege he had been born with? To be born next in line to the throne… imagine what he could achieve. 

"But Grantaire, think of all the good you could do for France, for the world." Enjolras knew when to set realistic goals. In a world so strongly dictated by the will of the Church, where the divine right of the Kings was so firmly believed in, he knew that there was no chance of ever even thinking about their Kingdom without it's monarch; he hoped, however, that one day in the future, the people's attitudes may change and they realize that to hand off so much power to one family, to give up individual sovereignty, was wrong, and that everyone, of every standing may be perceived as equal.

For now, however, he knew that the Kings would remain on the throne. How he could affect change was to make sure the King that sat and ruled did so with a mind open to improvement, that looked out for his people and governed with the intent to lift his kingdom from oppression and towards a better state of living. If given the power, the King must advocate for building a nation where it's people are happy and progress is given it's natural right to continue forward. 

"I just don't have that flame of passion one needs to fight for and implement such change, Alexandre." Grantaire took his hand and shifted closer, staring intently into his eyes as he continued, "Perhaps I shall simply have to find myself a consort who does have that passion, that conviction—a consort who will rule by my side and lead France in change for the better."

Gently, he brought Enjolras' hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to its back. Shivering, Enjolras replied breathlessly, "I hope you don't have to look too hard to find them." 

Grantaire stared for a moment more before breaking away with a sigh. "But still," he persisted. "To be so defined by your position, to only be seen as what you are—you don't know how insufferable it is." 

Enjolras snorted quietly and turned away to hide his eye-roll as he muttered under his breath, "You have no idea." 

"Pardon?"

"I just meant," he corrected, "you might be surprised."

The corner of Grantaire's mouth quirked up. "Really?" he asked, prompting him to talk using the same method he had used for the entirety of the day. 

Enjolras found he could not resist. "A band of thieves, for example, is rarely ever painted as anything else," he stated, gesturing to the camp around them. "They're defined by their status as your title defines you, yet it is not who they are. No one ever stops once to wonder why a person is forced to resort to thievery. No one ever bothers to try and figure out the story. No one ever listens, and they end up missing the fact that a man's sister's child was starving, or that they had been kicked off their feudal lord's lands… or that they're persecuted refugees from another kingdom that just seek the right to live. There's a perfectly logical explanation, and yet people hear the word "thief" and they turn away." As his hand movements grew more frantic, the passion in his voice, which he constantly had to keep in check while living under the Thenardiers, shone through brilliantly, because here Grantaire was _listening_ ; he was listening and there were no repercussions, no punishments, just Grantaire's rapt attention, a gleam in his eyes as Enjolras ploughed on. He couldn't stop now, he was on a roll. "Their status does them a disservice. On the other side, _you_ have been born to privilege, and with that privilege comes specific obligations," he finished confidently. 

Grantaire stared at him in amazement. "I find myself in constant wonder when in your presence, Alexandre," he murmured. "How is it that you can carry so much conviction within yourself? How is it that with every word spoken from you kindles a flame within me I had long since thought burnt out? How is it that you have managed to turn this cynic into a believer?" 

Enjolras shifted closer, knees touching, faces just a breath away. "Words hold so much more power than given credit, Grantaire. Words can turn even the toughest skeptic into a faithful devotee."

"It's not just anybody's words though, is it?" he asked. "It's _your_ words. Every sentence that leaves your lips seems to bathe me in light." Reaching out his hand, Grantaire traced his thumb lightly along Enjolras' lip, before curling around to cup his cheek. Sighing, Enjolras leaned into the Prince's gentle touch as his eyes fluttered shut. Silently, he wondered if the Prince would meet him there in the dark. "Your lips, Alexandre, have me hypnotized." 

Would they be sweet? How does it feel to have another's lips upon your own, to have another gently bestow upon you that which are only told of in fairytales? Would a part of him wake up too, just as Briar Rose had when the Prince had braved the forest to awaken her from her slumber? 

A more rational part of Enjolras demanded he push away and leave at once. What he had been doing, what he was doing, what made his heart race as he thought what he would be doing, was all against his plan. He was _not_ supposed to be getting caught up with the Prince, he was _not_ supposed to grow closer to a man he was not allowed to love, he was _not_ supposed to give away his heart to the one person he could not have. 

But for one single moment, just for one _moment,_ could he not allow himself the passion he had for so long denied? Was it so wrong to feel as humans feel? To crave, to desire, to _love?_ Yes, perhaps he had given his love out to the wrong man, perhaps he would be left heartbroken for the rest of the eternity for which he lived, perhaps he would never feel such a pull again in his lifetime. But if he had even one single memory, if he could just have this one moment stored away within the confines of his heart, one time where he allowed himself to indulge, allowed himself after so long to have what he wanted, he could live with that. If just for one second, his passion could be quenched, he would live satisfied for the rest of his days.

When the Prince gently brushed his lips against Enjolras' own, he failed to stifle his soft gasp. As strongly as he could taste the sweetness of wine upon the Prince's lips, the burn of his desire far overpowered the remnants the drink must have left, the sensation of something so foreign to Enjolras sending sparks dancing throughout his every nerve as they cascaded to collectively light his entire being aflame with passion. The meeting of their lips was sweet and gentle, slow enough for Enjolras, who had never done such a thing before, to keep up and timidly kiss back, bringing up a hand to cup where stubble remained on Grantaire's jaw as Grantaire slid a hand up his curls. 

When they pulled away, he closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment to process what had just transpired over the past few minutes when he felt Grantaire pull him close once more, this time guiding Enjolras' head to rest upon his chest, where Enjolras could make out the sound of his heartbeat, calm and steady. Curling his fingers in the fabric of his doublet, he fluttered his eyes shut as he felt Grantaire press a gentle kiss to the curls on his head and wrapped his arms around him, warm and safe.

"It is your lips that have me hypnotized. It is your eyes that have me bewitched. It is your words that have me devoted. It is your soul that has me complete," Grantaire recited, breathlessly. 

Enjolras' breath caught in his throat. He knew he shouldn't let himself fall any further, he knew he should push away, that he should sever himself, that he should leave. And yet, this feeling wouldn't leave _him_ no matter how he tried. Resist as he tried, he couldn't help but confess, "I had never known such passion before I met you. I feel as if you've taught me as much—perhaps even more than—as you claim I have taught you." 

Grantaire answered simply by drawing him close once more as he stooped to press his lips upon Enjolras' again and—

"Yes! Finally!"

They jumped apart as the entire camp burst into applause and cheers. Furiously red, Enjolras ducked his head, smiling shyly when Grantaire wrapped him up in his arms and allowed him to bury his face into his chest and hide his stupidly happy smile from the rest of the watching world.

________________________________________________________

Grantaire brought him back to the manor in the dead of the night on horseback. Grantaire dismounted first, then reached up and lifted Enjolras up by the waist and off the horse down to the ground, and for once Enjolras didn't complain. It wasn't that he was not capable of dismounting on his own, it was simply that maybe he enjoyed letting someone else take the stress of things, let things be done for him for once rather than constantly having to advocate for himself all the time. 

Maybe he liked it when Grantaire held him close, like he was doing right now, wrapping tight arms around him and pulling him in an embrace Enjolras did not find himself in the mood to leave. 

"I haven't had the chance to say thank you for saving my life back there in the woods," Grantaire said above him. Enjolras shook his head against Grantaire's heart.

"I don't need you to thank me for offering something every human life should have: protection." 

They remained silent for a moment more before Grantaire spoke again. "Do you know the ruins at Amboise?" When he nodded his head in affirmation, he continued, "I often go there to be… alone." Pulling away, he grabbed Enjolras' hands instead as he looked earnestly into his eyes. "Would you meet me there tomorrow?" 

_No! Push him away!_

"Grantaire, I shall…”

“Yes?”

“...I shall try."

Grantaire bestowed upon his hands once more a kiss as searing as the one upon his lips had been a few hours ago. "Then I shall wait all day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a good day for America, in the fight for democracy and the will of the people :)
> 
> What I've been doing in this fic is for the dialogue I've either rephrased or used direct dialogue from the movie, but within this chapter, most of the dialogue are actually my own words, and I have to say, I'm pretty proud of the quote I wrote for Grantaire right after they kiss... I hope to be able to use that in my own book when I one day write it, if I don't find it too cringy by then.
> 
> There was literally no legitimate reason for Enjolras and Grantaire to have that argument about walking through the forest, I'm just a sucker for the image of Grantaire lifting Enjolras into a bridal carry. Fight me.
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> I CRAVE YOUR WORDS... SPEAK TO ME...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Circumstances force change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I think I'll just let you read this chapter.
> 
> TW: Child abuse-- (non graphic) violence. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

In the middle of the night, right after he had returned from his rather momentous day, Grantaire burst into Joly and Bossuet’s joint chambers. 

“I’m going to build a university!” he blurted out. 

“R what the hell it’s the middle of the night—”

“I’m going to build a university,” he repeated, panting after having run all the way from the stables. “It’ll be the largest in all of Europe, where anyone of any station or standing can study.”

Joly squinted at him in the dark. “Grantaire, are you quite sure you’re feeling alright? How many drinks have you had?” he asked as he made his way out of bed and gingerly laid the back of his hand across Grantaire’s forehead. 

Grantaire slapped his hand away. “Of course I’m fine!” As he turned to march out the room, he suddenly rebounded back in, exclaiming, “Oh! And I want to make the ball open to any serf who wishes to attend!”

Racing out of their chambers to inform his parents of his plan, he heard Bossuet call out, “So I take it things went well with the Comte?”

_Better than well._

________________________________________________________

_He was with Grantaire once more, back at the campfire as their lips met in a tangle of passion and desire, all culminating in a kiss that left them both breathlessly delirious._

_Except, this time he wasn’t the Comte Alexandre Lamarque._

_This time, he was Enjolras._

_Just Enjolras._

_"It is your lips that have me hypnotized. It is your eyes that have me bewitched. It is your words that have me devoted. It is your soul that has me complete,” Grantaire breathed._

_Enjolras drew closer. “Even as a servant?” he asked earnestly._

_“A servant only back there. You could never be anything less than Apollo in my eyes.”_

_“My name is Enjolras. Please, I just want to hear you say it once. Just once.”_

_Grantaire opened his mouth, and Enjolras waited with bated breath to hear his name_ — _his own name_ — _who he was_ — _on the Prince’s tongue. Grantaire moved to speak_ —

“Where were you?” 

Gasping, he jerked awake as he tumbled out the fireplace by the force of his step-father’s rough grip on his arm. 

“Answer the question, boy!” 

Enjolras’ mind frantically scrambled for a believable answer, but what could he possibly say to excuse such a long absence? He was definitely in for hell today. 

“I… I got lost,” he stuttered.

_CRACK!_

His step-father struck him. “I don’t believe you.” Grabbing him by the collar, he hauled him up, proving he had quite a lot more strength than what it seemed in his wiry frame. “You’re hiding something, and I demand to know what it is.” 

Shaking his head, he stammered, terrified, “I’m not hiding anything, I swear!”

“You lazy little leech,” he sneered. “You didn’t even wake up in time to make us breakfast. We had to have Courfeyrac cook for us instead. What could you possibly have been doing yesterday to be so tired this morning?”

Looking his step-father in the eyes, he lied earnestly, “I was picking wildflowers and I got lost. Please, I’m being honest.”

He was dropped abruptly on the cold floor as his step-father struck him once more, leaving his cheek screaming red. A sharp tug on his scalp had him gritting his teeth to keep from crying out as his step-father yanked on his hair and forced him to look up from the ground.

“There are penalties for lying, Enjolras. Learn them or I shall have you learn them through experience.” With a final disdainful glare, he turned out the room and left him lying on the floor, shuddering as it’s frigid temperature seeped into his skin through the fabric of his rags. 

________________________________________________________

He was in the garden with Pere Valjean, reading _Utopia_ in a bid to calm down when Eponine had come running. 

“Enjolras, you need to come with me.” 

He frowned. What was so urgent?

“What’s wro—” Grabbing him by the wrist, she pulled him up into the manor and towards—his heart sank. _Towards his stepparents’ chambers._

“Eponine what is it?” he asked in what he hoped was a calm voice, trying inconspicuously to free his wrist. Why would Eponine of all people try bring him up here? He trusted her, she wasn’t… she wasn’t giving him up, was she?

“It’s your clothes—your Father’s clothes,” she replied. “You need to stop them or they’ll take it for themselves.”

 _Take Papa’s clothes?_ What did she mean “take his Father’s…" 

Oh.

She walked him over into the room where his step mother and Montparnasse were rifling through the chest he had seen before, holding up his Papa’s clothes and boots. He furrowed his eyebrows.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked furiously, for once not caring about the consequences because _this was his Papa’s things they were touching, some of the only memories he had left of him and they were taking it away from him._

Montparnasse smirked. “Trying on my new clothes,” he answered, twirling the fabric around. 

His step-mother glared distastefully at him. “Do you think after what I heard about your behaviour this morning that we’d let you go anywhere with us, much less the _ball_?”

Enjolras gaped incredulously. “Do you honestly think these games—these intrigues—are going to win you a crown? To hunt royalty like some sport—it’s disgusting! The Prince is a person, not a thing you can acquire!” 

“You’re just jealous that the Prince has shown an interest in me,” Montparnasse sneered. 

_Jealous? That the Prince has shown interest in_ you?

Briefly, Enjolras contemplated telling them where he had really been yesterday, just for the satisfaction of the look on his step-brother’s face.

Gripping his book tight, he gritted his teeth and stated, “Those are my Father’s.”

“Yes,” Montparnasse said with a mocking tone, “and he’s dead.”

_He’s dead._

_He’s dead._

_He’s dead._

At his words, Enjolras could hear nothing but the rush of his blood in his ears.

_He’s dead._

_He’s dead._

_He’s dead._

Head pounding, blood thrumming, he wasn’t aware of much but the sting of his knuckles as his fist connected with Montparnasse’s left eye—and then Eponine was pulling him away, trying desperately to whisper calming reassurances as he screamed.

“I’m going to wish you were never born!” 

Ripping himself out of Eponine’s hold, he launched himself at his step brother, falling atop him as he yanked the boots from his grip, scrabbling for his hair as Montparnasse screamed. 

They went rolling on the floor as Enjolras attempted to land another blow, hands, hair, legs flying everywhere. Enjolras felt something torn from his hands, but too preoccupied with the fight, did not pay heed. 

Montparnasse shrieked. “Mother! Do something!” 

He felt himself lifted off into the air, thrown hard onto the ground, far away from where Montparnasse clutched at his heart, catching his breath, a fresh, colourful bruise blooming on his left eye. Attempting to rise again, he felt his cheek flare with familiar pain as his step-mother struck him across the face. 

“Give me the boots, Enjolras!” she snarled.

Clutching the footwear close to his chest, he screamed out “No!” 

“Give me the boots, Enjolras or so help me God I will throw this in the fire!” 

Enjolras snapped his head up as he watched Montparnasse hold his copy— _his Father’s copy_ —of _Utopia_ above the roaring flames of the fireplace. Frantically, he shot up to his feet as he thrust out his arm in desperation.

“No! Montparnasse don’t! Put it down!” He took a hurried step, halting suddenly when Montparnasse lowered it closer.

“Don’t take another step!” he called. “Give me the boots!”

“Put it down!” he cried out, panicked. 

“Then give me the boots!”

No. No no no no no. He didn’t want to have to choose. These were the only things he had left of his Papa. On one hand, the clothes his Papa once wore, promised to him, his scent still lingering in the fabric. On the other, his Papa’s last book, his last parting words of wisdom to Enjolras, the book that shaped Enjolras into the man he was today.

How could they possibly expect him to choose?

“Please,” he whispered in a last-ditch attempt, eyes stinging. 

“Consider carefully, Enjolras,” his step-mother’s cold voice came from behind him. “Your Father’s book or his shoes.”

Enjolras looked between the book, so near to burning in the fireplace, and the shoes, still carrying his Father’s spirit. He felt sick. 

Heart tearing itself apart, he handed over the shoes to his step brother. Montparnasse snatched them away before taking a long look at Enjolras.

He threw the book into the fire.

“NO!”

Enjolras screamed as he lunged for the book, only to be caught around the middle and held back by his step mother. 

“Too late. Your actions won’t save you from a lashing today, Enjolras.”

Struggling wildly, he cried out as he watched the pages he held so dear to his heart, each page read at least ten times over, desperate in a bid to try and hear his Father’s voice one last time, burn away, consumed by the licking flames, leaving only ashes and dust and a memory gone forever. 

“No! No please! Please, let me go! No! NO!”

Eponine jumped towards the book; Montparnasse caught her by the wrist.

“Let go, ‘Parnasse! You don’t need to do this, let go!” With a sharp tug, he threw her out of the room and locked the door. 

Screaming, he flailed and kicked and reached out desperately, but he was so, so far from the fire, and his step-mother's grip around him was unmercifully tight. “Let go! Please, you got what you wanted! Please, please!”

Eventually, his begging gave away to crying as he stopped struggling and watched his last connection to his Papa burn away forever. He slumped over, crying into his hands. 

“Stop crying!” She backhanded him and sent stars dancing in his vision. “Your tears won’t save you from punishment!” She hauled him off the floor and onto the bed, turning to rummage through her drawer, drawing out a thick belt.

“Mother… perhaps you don’t need to do this…”

“Don’t tell me you're growing soft now, Montparnasse! If you can’t handle this, then leave!”

“But—”

“Leave!”

There was the distinct sound of shuffling feet and the door shutting. 

Turning back to him, his step-mother snarled and said, “I want you to remember this the next time you try and act out.”

She ripped the back of his shirt off and brought the lash down on his bare skin. 

________________________________________________________

The servants quarter was rarely ever silent; at the very least, there was always chatter going on between whichever two of them were there. Now, the only discernible sounds were the crackling of the fireplace, painful gasps, moans, and whimpers, and Enjolras' own defeated voice. 

"I've been living a lie. I wasn't supposed to meet the Prince. There was never any chance of us. I don't know who I was trying to fool."

He gave a quiet hiss of pain as Cosette ran a wash cloth over his whip wounds. Looking over his shoulder, he could see her wince and dip the cloth once more in the bloodied bucket of water, eyes shining with unshed tears. He opened his mouth with the thought of comforting her but was cut off with a gasp as she swiped another wash cloth over his skin—this one dripping with inexpensive liquor. At his gasp of pain, Courfeyrac brought the hand that Enjolras was currently holding hostage up to his lips to press a shaky kiss.

"I'm a servant, and will always be one. Servants don't marry Princes. And you know, Gran—His Highness was never the goal. I've been getting distracted. I need to focus on what matters here—the manor."

Eponine finished wrapping the bandages around his back.

"This was wrong. I was wrong. And my heart was wrong." 

Jehan choked up. "Enjolras…" 

He shook his head. "Please just… don't."

As if like a rag doll, Pere Valjean picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. It wasn't Enjolras' favourite position, nor his most dignified, but at the current moment he found himself in much too delirious pain to care. He didn't think he had the strength, in neither his muscles nor heart, to carry himself up to Pere Valjean's room, where an _actual bed_ laid waiting for him. 

"Come, child. You must allow yourself some rest. Even if it's just for a while."

He wanted to protest against it; he had work to do, who was going to get it done, but found his brain could no longer form coherent thought as his eyes drooped with each step up. 

He passed out before he even made it to the bed.

  
  


________________________________________________________

Eponine was finding it very difficult to maintain her composure as she watched the Queen concernedly gaze at the fresh black eye her brother now sported. If her Mother hadn't been gripping tight to her hand in warning, she guessed she would have groaned and left the gazebo table an hour ago, rolling her eyes at the display in front of her. 

"You really must let my court physician Joly take a look at that," Queen Floreal insisted. "To think you saved that baby from that runaway cart!" 

Yes. That was the excuse he had rattled off. Pathetic, wasn't it?

Montparnasse smiled, but couldn't hold back his grimace. "It was parental instinct, Your Majesty." 

Eponine snorted.

The Queen threw her a knowing smile before saying, "I'm sorry my son can't join us. He seems to have disappeared again." 

The smile her Mother had plastered on her face faltered just the slightest. "Again?" she asked uncertainly.

The Queen nodded. "Yes. He was gone all of yesterday and did not return until dawn." 

Her Mother's eye twitched, and Eponine allowed herself a small moment of smug satisfaction because she knew exactly where the Prince had been yesterday, and with whom he had been with.

"Well!" She clapped her hands together. "It must be marvellous having that kind of stamina!"

"Indeed." 

An awkward silence fell over the group as the Queen fiddled with her fingers in what Eponine thought was a very un-queenlike fashion. Unable to bear such moments of silence, she went to open her mouth to fish around for any sort of topic, but found the Queen beat her to it first. 

Leaning forward, she looked thoughtful as she said, "Perhaps you can solve a little mystery for me. Do you happen to know a Comte Lamarque by any chance? Rumour has it that he's staying with a cousin, but nobody seems to know who."

_Shit._

Eponine watched with bated breath as her Mother's face froze. Quietly, she let out a curse. 

_Oh no._

"Alexandre… Lamarque?" her Mother ventured cautiously. Eponine bit her lip. This really wasn't good. She feared what would happen to Enjolras once they rode back to the manor.

The Queen sat back with a laugh of relief. "Yes! Oh how wonderful that someone finally seems to know him! I was beginning to think he was a ghost!" 

They all chuckled nervously except for her Mother, who was gripping her tea cup like a weapon. "No," she gritted out. "I'm afraid he's been around for years."

"Oh?"

"And he's been staying with us, as a matter of fact. Isn't that right, my darlings?" She looked hard both her way and Montparnasse's. 

Eponine looked away. 

"Yes!" she heard her brother say, though not with much confidence. "Our...cousin?"

"Who very much likes to pick wildflowers in his free time and you like to call the 'Cinders Fellow?'" 

Montparnasse's face darkened. 

"Right. Of course. Him." 

Eponine flinched. How many possible ways were there to sneak a man out of a manor? 

This time, her Mother leaned forward, baring her teeth like a wolf as she said, "Now, Your Highness, allow me to tell you about the Comte Alexandre Lamarque."

________________________________________________________

Enjolras had been foolish. How could he ever have let his emotions guide his actions so strongly? 

The past few days had been a lie. Enjolras was not a nobleman. He was not a Comte. He was simply a servant—born a peasant, destined to die a peasant. He had no future with the Prince, _he was no one to_ _the Prince._

It had been foolish to fall for a man he was not allowed to love, it had been foolish to give in to that love, and it was foolish to think life would ever allow him to stay with that love. 

Not to mention that it was wrong to have strung along the Prince like that, to lie to him about who he really was. 

Enjolras would do better to stay in his place and out of matters that did not and could not concern him. To live life dictated by love was to open up the heart to hurt. He was never destined to have a lasting love; at the age of eight his Father left him to a family that denied him the affection that he had so vulnerably needed, and at the age of eighteen he had given his heart to a man who could never know who he was.

When he had been given a morning's worth of lashings and had been forced to watch as his Papa's last memory burned away to nothing, he had learned his lesson; it would serve him better to remain in his place and think things through with his head rather than heart. 

Enjolras was nobody. 

And it would be better to stay that way.

The Prince was destined to marry a nobleman, he was destined to marry someone of his standing, he was destined to marry someone like _Montparnasse._ Enjolras wasn't supposed to have crossed paths with the Prince. 

But he supposed now that he had, he should at least say a proper goodbye before he went his own way and the Prince went his. 

________________________________________________________

He was standing, reading a book that Enjolras recognized as _Julius Excluded From Heaven_ when he made his way closer. At the sound of his footsteps, Grantaire looked up and smiled, prompting Enjolras to pray the constant wince he had on his face as his back moved with every step he took was not visible. 

"Hello," Grantaire greeted with a charming smile that up until yesterday would have pulled him closer until he was standing in his arms, held close and warm and _safe_.

But yesterday was a lie. The Prince couldn't keep him safe; that was his own job.

Enjolras gave him a tight smile. "Hello."

Grantaire's face fell concernedly as his eyes flickered over Enjolras' own, observing the stiff manner in which he held himself and the polite yet detached tone with which he spoke. 

"Are you well?" he asked, concerned as he stepped forward and eliminated the respectful distance Enjolras had thought to keep between them.

Enjolras looked at him wearily, remembering still to keep up his facade of a smile. Smiling on the outside, torn apart emotionally on the inside. 

It wasn't the first time he had hid behind a mask. 

"I fear that I am not myself today," he answered, partially honest. 

Grantaire laughed, loud and bright, sending a pang through Enjolras' heart; he would very much miss that laugh, the one that filled him to bursting at knowing he made the Prince smile, knowing he had such an effect on the man. "I feel as if my skin is the only thing keeping me from going everywhere all at once. And truthfully," he stepped closer and snaked an arm around Enjolras' waist, drawing him close, "I haven't felt so radiant like this in a long time." 

Burying a hiss of pain, with none of the poise he had previously practiced, he blurted out, "There is something I must tell you." 

The Prince smiled and traced a thumb along his cheekbone. "And I you." As the Prince continued to smile and gently stroke his cheek, Enjolras felt his heart shatter even further than it already had when he had come to the realization that he had to _let go._ "Oh," the Prince said abruptly. He protruded the book he had previously been reading from his pocket and held it out. "Your book. You forgot it in the carriage yesterday."

Handing it over, Enjolras took the book in his own hands, running a reverent hand over the cover. Well, now at least he had something to remember the Prince by. _That is,_ he thought bitterly, _as long as Montparnasse doesn't find it._

He looked back up into the Prince's enthusiastic face. "Sire…" he started painfully.

"Grantaire," he immediately corrected.

Enjolras bit his lip. He couldn't say his name. It was too intimate, too intimate for a conversation between a Prince… and a servant. 

"I cannot stay for long, but I… I had to see you," he admitted quietly. Fiddling with his hands, he managed to get out, "There is… much to say." 

Grantaire took his hand in his own. "Come, I want to show you something." Evidently, he did not hear what Enjolras had said. Tugging him by the hand, he led them through the ruins of the once-magnificent Gothic castle. No… not once magnificent; even in a state of ruin, it was glorious as ever. "I used to play here as a child. It was my Father's most cherished retreat before the war." 

Enjolras allowed himself a full view of the ruins around him. He had heard of it before; once so treasured by the monarchy in the last century, the castle had now fallen into ruins, abandoned by the people and left to fend for itself. 

A bird twittered somewhere nearby. 

Around the castle, in the courtyard of the castle, trees grew proud and tall. 

Beneath him, wildflowers grew free and uninhibited. 

_The castle wasn't in ruins,_ he realized. _It was as it should be_.

Even abandoned, left to die, the castle still managed to stay afloat, and it shone through brilliantly, blooming bolder and more beautiful. 

Even after enduring fierce rainstorms, biting snow from blizzards, pelting hail, blistering heat, and general neglect, even after all it had been through, the castle survived. And for that, it was magnificent.

"It's… it's beautiful," he marvelled breathlessly. 

Grantaire gave his hand a light squeeze. "I've measured my life by these trees, starting from here," he led him over to a tree with several engraved notches and pointed to the lowest of them, one not too far off the ground, "to here," this time he pointed to the notch that stood exactly one head above Enjolras, directly parallel to the Prince when he stood up against the trunk. "And still, I may have stopped but the tree continues to grow. So much life to live." Turning to Enjolras, he drew him close and cupped his cheek. "And yet, I no longer imagine it alone." 

_Why?_ Why did he have to make this so hard? Enjolras already felt as if his heart had been trampled on. He didn't know it was possible for glass to shatter even smaller. _Fragile glass broken beyond repair._ His heart too, seemed to be made of the same material. 

He supposed it was his fault he had allowed himself to become so foolishly attached. 

How many times had his mind screamed _push him away!_ only for him to choose to throw caution and sense to the wind and impulsively act on his heart? 

Whatever heartbreak he felt, he deserved.

"You're not exactly making this easy," he informed weakly. 

Grantaire leaned in closer, pressing Enjolras against the tree he had shown him. Enjolras dared not breathe in fear. "I have not slept for fear that I would wake and find this to be all but a dream," he whispered, trailing his lips along his jawline. Enjolras froze, heart rate beginning to pick up because _oh he wanted this and he liked it too,_ but this was wrong, he wasn't supposed to do this, he hadn't come here to allow himself to be hurt again, he didn't come here to hurt the Prince, he had come to say goodbye and this was _very_ far from it. "I'll tell you a well known secret, Alexandre: I don't believe in anything. Not a single thing, and if I remember correctly, that fact had very much turned you against me. However, in recent days, I have found myself in a state of vexation, because for the first time, I've come to believe in something." His lips began to slide down hot over Enjolras' throat; he tipped his head back and gasped quietly, eyes fluttering shut. "I've found purpose again. And it's a project inspired solely by you." At the crook of his neck he placed a burning kiss. Enjolras clutched tightly at the fabric beneath his fingers. 

" _Grantaire_ ," he murmured breathlessly. 

The Prince kissed his way back up Enjolras' throat. "It's you. It's always been you. And it will always be you." 

_It will always be you._

No, no it won't. Because Enjolras wasn't who he said he was. Someone of his standing could never be with Grantaire. There was no future in which it would always be him. 

He had to let go.

_Push him away!_

With great difficulty, he raised his lead-heavy arms and gently laid them upon the Prince's chest to keep him from pressing his gentle, sweet but fiery and passionate lips on Enjolras'.

"It wasn't me," he tried to convince. 

Grantaire laughed. "Alexandre, you are unlike any courtier I have ever met. Tomorrow at the masque, I shall make it known to the rest of the world." 

Enjolras shook his head. Tears sprang, hot, burning in his eyes. He had once heard that the Greeks had believed in three figures named the Fates, who governed how your life would turn out. In his head, he wondered if he had done anything in his previous life to have offended the witches, who now took pleasure in tormenting his heart. Why, of all people, him? The question worked both ways. Why, of all people, would the Prince fall for him? Outspoken, bold, passionate to a fault, the Prince ought to have gone for someone more willingly subservient. Reversed, of all people, why did Enjolras have to fall for the one person he could not have, no matter how vividly he imagined laying in his arms, smiling as he held his hand, sitting with the man's head in his lap, in his dreams? Those dreams would only ever remain a fantasy that would haunt his thoughts for the rest of his life, and unless he wanted to add to his painful memories, then he needed to walk away right now.

He had to let go. If not for his sake, then at least for the Prince, who needed time so that he could move on and find a new, better, truer love. 

"Why did you have to be so wonderful?" he wondered out loud. If the circumstances had been different, he would have been rather horrified at the tear that had managed to slip out his eye, but in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to care. 

The smile on Grantaire's face faded and gave way to a concerned frown. Swiping at the tear with his thumb, he stroked his cheek and asked, "Alexandre? What's wrong?" 

Closing his eyes, he shook his head and swallowed to try keep his shuddering breaths under control. "Nothing's wrong," he said, voice strained with the effort it took to keep from breaking down. "I just wanted to say that," his breath hitched, "last night was the happiest night of my life." 

Grantaire crushed him to his chest. "To hear you say that it was I who made that possible… it feels as if my life's goal has been complete." He wrapped his arms tight around Enjolras' back. The memory of the day's lashings made itself prevalent as his back flared up in pain at the Prince's touch. Gasping, he pulled away hastily. 

Swiping at his tears, he choked out, "I must go."

Grantaire's smile faltered. "Go? Go where." 

Enjolras simply shook his head. "Just go," he replied, his voice finally cracking from all the undue stress he had caused it from trying to keep his sobs at bay. Crumbling, he turned and fled, far into the thicket of the forest, ignoring the Prince's frantic calls for the name he had lied about and swiping desperately at the tears that streaked down his face as he finally let himself break down. 

________________________________________________________

_CRACK!_

"Of all the insidious jokes, pretending you were your Father, that you were a nobleman. It's almost as absurd as a Prince who spends his day with a servant who has no better place to sleep than the fireplace!" 

At this point, Enjolras was sure that he was beginning to lose sensation in his cheek after having been struck so many times. Now the only thing he could feel was the heat radiating off as an effect of the slap. Every blow felt the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot Pere Valjean and the rest of his friends all frantically shaking their heads to try tell him not to speak out, but he turned away and ignored them.

Clenching his jaw, he replied, "What makes you more upset, step-father? That I am common… or that I am competition?" 

His step-father struck him once more, sending him crashing to the floor. "You dare speak to me like that? Insolent child! After everything we've provided for you?" He raised his hand once more, but his step-mother reached out to stop him. 

_Well. That would be a first._

"Where are the clothes, Enjolras?" 

_Ah. So there's a reason._

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"The clothes, you ingrate!" Montparnasse exclaimed. "The shirt! The doublet! The pants! The boots!" He looked rather like a madman, waving his arms around like that. "They were all in my room, but now they're missing! You hid them, I know it!"

Hid them? How could he have hid them? He hadn't had any time to do such a thing! Quite the contrary, he felt rage at the fact that his step family had managed to lose his Papa's clothing, then have the audacity to blame _him_ for it. 

"Where did you put the clothes, Enjolras?" his step-mother repeated. 

All at once, Enjolras felt his rage boil over. _He_ had been the one who had been punched and slapped and kicked and abused. _He_ had been the one forced to watch his Papa's book—his only last remaining memory of him—burn away to nothing. _He_ had been the one to have to confront the truth on who he really was and leave the only man he knew he would ever love, shattering his heart to irreparable fragments. 

And yet, his step-family was acting like _they_ were the victims here. 

"I don't know!" he burst out, tired and heartbroken and _so very furious._ "I don't know! Where are the candlesticks and the tapestries and the silver? Perhaps the clothing is with them!" 

Yanking on his hair, his step mother-forced him to look at her as she bellowed, "You produce those clothes!" 

_No._

Enjolras had suffered enough already. He would not allow this last thing to happen. He didn't care what happened to himself anymore, he just knew that he would not give in even if he did know where the clothes were. 

Rising to his feet, he drew himself up to his full height, staring each of the three defiantly in the eyes. "I would rather die a thousand deaths!" he spit. "I would rather die a thousand deaths than see my Father's clothes on that spoiled, arrogant bastard!" 

Stunned at his sudden rebellion, he watched as his step-parents and step brother's jaws all hung agape. Even as he knew he had likely signed his death warrant, he still couldn't help but feel a dash of satisfaction at their reaction to being told _no._

His step-father was the first to recover from the shock, his eyes going dangerously dark. 

"That," he said in a voice lower than Enjolras had ever heard before, "sounds like something that can be arranged." 

Quick as a flash of lightning, his step father seized him by the wrist and threw him down the stairs into a downstairs room. Behind him the door clicked locked leaving him trapped alone, cold, and completely in the dark. He pounded frantically on the door. 

"You can't do this! Let me out!" he cried desperately.

Behind the door, his cries were ignored. 

“Open this door and you’ll wish you had never set foot in this house,” he heard his step-father say, presumably to the rest of his friends.

“Montparnasse, Eponine” his step-mother’s clipped voice came, “gather everything that will fetch a price. We’re going to town first thing in the morning.”

“No.”

Enjolras paused. 

“No? What do you mean no?” 

“I mean,” came Eponine’s cold voice, “no. I will not come.” 

“Eponine!”

“I will not allow myself to be seen with you all at the ball.”

“Eponine stop this foolishness!”

“No! I have no wish to go to the ball with a family that treats the people I love like less than dirt!”

“They are but servants! That’s all they’re worth!” his step-mother sneered.

“You’re wrong,” she shot back, quiet yet fierce. “They’ve been more of a family than you have ever been.” There was a pause before she continued, “Either you can unlock the door and let Enjolras out, or you can leave me behind.”

Through tears, Enjolras let out a shaky laugh; he really did love that girl. 

“You dare choose a servant boy over your own family?” his step-father asked incredulously. “It’s your loss then, Eponine. You may stay and rub hands with the dirt of society if you so please. With this one ball you could have changed your fate; now all you do is seal it as a servant.” 

“I’d rather work as a servant than be associated with you three."

Tension passed within the room outside, so thick Enjolras could feel it seep into the dingy room he was trapped in. Finally, his step mother called, “Come, Montparnasse!” The sound of two pairs of footsteps made its way out the room, leaving behind a surprising pair Enjolras would have never thought would remain. 

“Eponine… you're really going to stay with… with him?”

“Yes, because I have a backbone. Leave unless you’ve grown one too.”

“... So be it.”

On his side of the doorway, in the cold and dark on the steps, Enjolras slumped over, exhausted. He was so tired of constantly fighting; if giving in was inevitable, why not give in now? After all, it was only for a little while longer. Tomorrow night was the ball; there, Gran—the Prince would declare Montparnasse his chosen partner as Prince Consort, the wedding would take place soon after that, and his step-family would move into the castle, leaving the rest of them back here in the manor. That was what Enjolras needed to focus on; as soon as they all left, he could turn things around at the manor, afford him and his friends a life worth living better than the ones they currently had to contend with. 

It was just a matter of holding out a little longer.

“Enjolras?” 

He startled out of his thoughts. 

“We just… we just wanted to let you know that we’re all here,” Cosette called softly. 

Smiling, he filled his lungs full to bursting with air, calming his voice before replying, “That’s a very kind thought, but you should all go back and get some sleep.”

Someone on the other side of the door snorted, and Enjolras was already quite sure who it was. “Jokes on you if you think we’re leaving you here, Enj,” Courf said. Enjolras smiled as he imagined Courfeyrac rolling his eyes.

“We’re not moving from this spot, darling!” Jehan exclaimed. 

Opening his mouth to argue, he stopped when he heard Eponine softly call, “Enjolras?”

He stilled. “Yeah?”

She sniffed. “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why are you apologizing? ‘Ponine, it’s not your fault. Your family doesn’t define who you are, you are not—” 

On the other side of the door, he could make out the sound of a muffled sob. “No, I’m sorry I wasn’t ever able to do something. I tried so hard to tell them not to… but I couldn’t. I was—I was scared. But while I was being a coward, you were being abused. And that’s not okay.” She was crying hard now, and Enjolras felt horrified, horrified because the only person in his entire step-family who ever actually cared for him was blaming herself for something she did not take part in. 

“Eponine, hey, listen to me.” As her crying only grew more frantic, he sought out a better option. “Uh—uhm—Jehan, can you maybe hold her?”

“Come on, Eponine darling, try and listen,” Jehan murmured.

“Eponine? Do you think you can try and calm down? For me?”

Gradually, her sobs died down to the occasional sniffing. “What do you want?” she demanded in a croaky tone. 

Enjolras chuckled. There was the Eponine he knew. “Don’t you dare try and blame yourself. You tried to tell them to stop—and that already is a lot. There was a threat to your life if you did more, and I wouldn’t ever wish for you to get hurt on my account.” Taking a breath, he ran a hand through his curls. “Eponine, the months after my Papa died was the loneliest I had ever felt. Do you remember?” 

“Yeah,” Eponine’s shaky voice came from outside. “You would shut yourself up in the room you had back then, and shut yourself out from the rest of us.” She paused. “Even Courf.”

“I refused to eat for a long while,” he stated quietly. “I was growing a lot weaker—until one day you kicked down my door, barged into my room and practically forced the food down my throat.”

On the other side, everyone settled into a state of quiet as they listened to his story. Though it was a story they already knew, it was a rare occurrence for him to speak so openly about his past pain like this. 

“Then, a week later, step-father hit me for the first time.” He paused. “Well, he tried to, but he couldn’t—because you put yourself in between us both.”

He took a shuddering breath. "I would be a fool if I tried to tell myself that there was ever a time step-mother loved Papa. I know she married him only for his wealth and title. After he died and the rest of you moved in, I thought you were all going to be the same just as her. And in the case of step-father and Montparnasse, that turned out to be exactly what happened."

"And I'm different?" she asked weakly in disbelief.

"You couldn't be more different, 'Ponine. You're nothing like them. You were—are—the only person in my step-family who has ever shown me kindness—who has ever treated me with respect. You’ve argued with your own blood family for my sake, and you’ve just declined going to the big Masque tomorrow for me. You have nothing to apologize for, only everything to know that you _are_ a good person, you _are_ brave, and you _are_ your own being.”

A minute of silence passed between the group, before Eponine whispered, “How do you do it? How do you still manage to see so much good in others when good has never been done to you?”

How many times had he been asked that question? Grant—the Prince had asked quite a few times, and Eponine was asking now.

And in his mind, Enjolras knew he would be lying if he didn’t admit that he had often asked himself the same question.

How could he still strive to see light if he was so constantly shrouded in darkness?

Put down, mocked, scorned, abused—how could he still remain positive after everything he was forced to endure?

The answer was as it always had been: human nature seeks light to sustain itself. Just as the sunflower turns to face the light, so too does the heart. Enjolras had been biding his time, surviving, and it was his hope and resilience, the promise of a better future for himself and his friends to thrive in, that kept him going. He sought out light because it was a necessity, and the fact that it was a necessity gave evidence to the fact that good and kindness was an inert human quality. It simply depended on whether that inert quality stayed as a first instinct when a person grew up, or whether it ended up pushed aside to make way for wickedness. 

For Enjolras, to do good was never a question; it was an answer, an instinct, and it was how he lived. 

“It’s basic instinct,” he answered softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( 
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> TALK TO ME... I CRAVE COMMUNICATION...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of the masque and Grantaire is set to announce his choice for Royal Consort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> This one is a bit of a long chapter! It's finally the night of the ball! Are you ready???
> 
> TW: Child abuse-- non-graphic violence and mention of starving. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

He reeled back as if struck across the cheek. It couldn't be true. What he said—it was a lie. None of it made any sense. It just wasn't possible. 

"Engaged?" he repeated incredulously. "To a Belgian?" 

Feuilly nodded gravely. "I'm afraid so." 

Grantaire shook his head. "No. That's—that's impossible. There has to be some mistake." His friend gazed at him with affected sympathy. 

"He was travelling by boat this afternoon. Her Majesty said that the Comtesse Thenardier was quite… er… excited to talk about it." 

Grantaire threw his head back and laughed bitterly. "I bet she was, knowing that the competition had been eliminated. Now it leaves her and her son a direct beeline to the throne. They're probably already imagining the wedding proposal."

The proposal Grantaire had been planning on giving the man he had given his heart to. The man who earned his devotion through his fiery words and actions, who demonstrated a blazing flame meant to burn with his gaze, yet a gentle warmth under the touch of his lips. Who let Grantaire lay his hands on him while possessing the knowledge that it was all forbidden, because he was an engaged man whose oath of love and loyalty belonged to another. Who captured Grantaire's love while at the same time likely letting him live it unrequited.

Yet, was the Comte really happy with this arrangement? His mind flashed back to the words in the ruins. 

_"Why did you have to be so wonderful?"_

_"I just wanted to say that last night was the happiest night of my life."_

Clearly, the arrangement was not a happy one. It seemed even as if the Comte had suggested the idea that he was happier with Grantaire than with his Belgian fiancé. That didn't excuse the fact that he had promised himself to someone else, however, and while knowing that, still kissed Grantaire, still let Grantaire fall for him, still led him on to believe. 

Raking a hand through his hair, he muttered brokenly, "If he was betrothed, he should have said something. Why… why keep me waiting like that?" 

Feuilly sighed. "Grantaire, from what you've said it seems as if that was exactly what he was trying to do. It didn’t seem as if you were, er, really listening.”

His mind reeled back to the Comte’s words. 

_"You're not exactly making this easy."_

_"Why did you have to be so wonderful?"_

_"I just wanted to say that last night was the happiest night of my life."_

_"I must go."_

Of course. He had been trying to tell him the entire time. But Grantaire just couldn’t listen, could he? 

Ignorant. Unobservant. Couldn’t follow simple instructions. Couldn’t even steal a man’s heart, like the clumsy thief he was. 

Why would the Comte even really want him? What, did Grantaire really think the Comte would rethink his safe, secure engagement for someone as, in his Father’s words, chaotic and careless as Grantaire?

He couldn’t even figure out the fact that the man he had ended up falling for was promised away.

Feuilly put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Grantaire.”

He shook his head. “So am I.”

_"The only surety in life, I can proudly state, is my full glass."_

He needed a drink.

________________________________________________________

Of all the things Courfeyrac could not stand, it was to watch the spirit drain out of his best friend. On the other side of the locked door, Enjolras had gone uncharacteristically quiet. It wasn’t that his best friend was naturally a loud person like Courfeyrac was himself; Enjolras was known to go quiet at times, thoughtful, thinking thoroughly before he spoke, formulating well in his head so that his speech may come out eloquent and organized. The difference here was that when he went quiet then Courfeyrac was able to see the way his gears turned in his head, could almost hear him thinking, planning for action.

Here, the silence behind the door was deafening. 

Every moment he could spare—which, considering the ball was today, rapidly approaching, at this point only a matter of a few hours away, had not been very many—he spent at the doorside, coaxing speech out of Enjolras, a conversation about anything, everything. All he received was single worded answers, and even those eventually gave way to complete silence. 

It was driving him mad.

He couldn’t go a day without listening to his best friend rant about the inequalities of the social hierarchy or listen as he teased him for his weekly twenty five crushes. Courfeyrac had known Enjolras since he was born, and even the separation by a simple door was taking a toll on his heart.

More worried about his physical state was Cosette, whose anxiety grew as the hours passed and neither Monsieur nor Madame seemed to let up and at least allow the door to crack for passage of food and water. 

It wouldn’t be the first time his friend had been starved as punishment, and yet the sight still made Courfeyrac want to cry

As the ball drew nearer, the manor grew more frantic, the Comte and Comtesse running, cursing, hurrying to dress while Montparnasse’s demands became increasingly erratic as he prepared for the night his _entire life would change._

The carriage pulled out of the manor with the crack of a whip.

The second it did, the rest of his friends all fell upon the door, trying desperately in vain to rip it open. 

“It won’t budge!” Eponine strained out as she grit her teeth and gave a sharp tug to the locked door. Jehan shoved her away. 

“Here let me try… _oh why won’t you move?”_

Cosette banged on the door in frustration. “Hold on, Enjolras, we’re going to get you out of there!”

Silence. 

A sharp tug on his collar from behind sent him tripping backwards. “Shit!” Turning around, he looked sheepishly into Pere Valjean’s reproving gaze. “Sorry.”

“Go to the Prince. You must tell him what happened,” Pere Valjean said. Courfeyrac gaped incredulously. 

“Me? Go to the Prince?” he asked in disbelief. If the matter at hand weren’t so serious, he would laugh. “What makes you think he would listen to me?”

“You’re Enjolras’ best friend, Courfeyrac! He needs your help. The Prince expects to see him tonight.” 

Courfeyrac shook his head and ran a hand through his curls. “I can’t. It won’t work.” 

“Then go see da Vinci, or another one of the Prince’s friends. Any of the noblemen he knows,” Pere Valjean persisted. 

Courfeyrac furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t understand. Why do you need me to bring one of them back? You could get that door open as easily as it is for one of us to lift a plate of bread.”

Pere Valjean waved his hand dismissively and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’ll see to that. But Enjolras needs someone to escort him to the ball, someone the Prince will know so that he may be escorted and introduced properly.”

"I… I don’t…” 

Laying a strong hand on his shoulder, Pere Valjean bore his intense gaze into his eyes. Courfeyrac gulped. “Enjolras needs you, Courfeyrac. Do it for him. Besides, when have you ever been one to turn down the opportunity to party?” 

Courfeyrac glanced once more at the door his friends were trying so hard to pry open. Sitting behind it was a man Courfeyrac had grown up with, had smiled and laughed and played with; a man who he cried on, and comforted when he was the one crying. A man who had gone through a lifetime of hardship and deserved only everlasting happiness. A man who he would call his brother. 

Turning back, he gave a firm nod. “I’ll do it.” 

________________________________________________________

Courfeyrac was a master of acting. 

In his life, he had very easily gotten away with quite a bit of lying. Several times, he had dared to look the Comte and Comtesse in the eyes and blatantly lie. He had even managed to fool Enjolras a good few times into believing there were no chores left so that he would take a few minutes to just sit down and _breathe._ All in all, he would say that acting was one of his greater skills. 

Nothing, however, could have prepared him for this.

Glittering gowns of every shade of every colour imaginable, flashy coats and doublets, rich footwear, extravagant styles—on a different day in different circumstances, Courfeyrac would have stopped to admire the magnificence of the royal court, (or what Enjolras would call the disgusting, needless opulence of a class made on the backs of poor serfs) but seeing as he was dressed in none of that richness, looking thoroughly out of place somewhere _he had never been,_ he supposed that wasn't much of an option. It seemed every two minutes some new, snobby noble would throw him a dirty look as if he were a fruit fly, and unless he either found who he was looking for, he suspected he would end up thrown out. 

His best bet was da Vinci; there was no way he could approach the Prince himself, and seeing as he knew nothing of what the Prince's rumoured close friends looked like, he didn't think he had any other choice.

And yet. 

The greatest mind of the century. He was supposed to walk up and talk to the greatest mind of the century. _Just like that._

_Do it for Enj!_

First order of business however: he needed to find a way in. 

Amongst the hustle and bustle of the decorated garden where the ball was being held, he searched frantically for something, _anything_ that would allow him to go unnoticed. 

"This way, Sir! Straight up there, Madame!" 

Whirling around, Courfeyrac's eyes caught onto a bright red outfit, the uniform of the Court Page— _ah yes._

He smiled deviously.

He knew exactly how he was going to get in. 

________________________________________________________

"Enjolras! It'd be best if you moved away from the door!" 

Cosette's eyes widened as her Papa rolled up his sleeves and held himself before the door. She didn't doubt her Papa's strength; everyone in the household knew of his legendary, almost supernatural strength. She just didn't want to take any chances. 

_Bang!_

He threw himself at the door, causing the hinges to rattle noisily. 

_Bang!_

He slammed his arm against the wood, the sound echoing through the manor. 

"Alright, let's get this done with," she heard him mutter. Eponine tugged her back by the sleeve as he drew himself back again, then threw himself at the door with as much strength as he could muster. 

_BANG!_

The door came crashing down, tumbling down the stairs onto the little square landing on which Enjolras sat, eyes wide and stunned. Pere Valjean skipped down the stairs and hauled him up by the middle, carrying him up the stairs and depositing him on a chair in front of the table.

"Come, child. We must get some food in you before the ball."

________________________________________________________

Courfeyrac should feel bad. 

At the current moment, the poor Royal Page— _the real Royal Page_ —was lying unconscious in a bush somewhere with only Courfeyrac's rags to cover him in this weather. 

Meanwhile, Courfeyrac was feeling ecstatic when he really should be feeling guilty but _goddamnit_ _the nobles get to have all the fun. These clothes are so soft and rich and the colour is so bold and daring and_ — _come on Courfeyrac, focus!_

Robes swishing, he pushed his way through the crowd looking for the acclaimed painter. 

"Excuse me—Pardon me—Please let me through—"

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a familiar figure with a long beard that everyone who knew of the eccentric inventor of Italy recognized. Calming his racing heart, he tapped the man— _the one and only Leonardo da Vinci_ —on the shoulder and cleared his throat. 

_Play it cool, Courfeyrac._

"SIGNOR DA VINCI!" 

His eyes rolled to the back of his head as the world spun and fell rapidly around him before going endlessly, impossibly black.

"Are you okay?" 

________________________________________________________

Enjolras had no wish to go to the ball. 

And yet, it seemed the way all of his friends were trying to force a culmination of today's missed breakfast, lunch, and dinner down his throat, they were determined to ensure that he was healthy and steady enough so they could force him to do just that. 

For his own part, Enjolras remained silent and mindlessly chewed on whatever the hell it was that Eponine was shoving in his mouth.

Vaguely, he wondered where Courfeyrac was. 

As if his question had been heard and immediately answered, Courf came stumbling in, pale and sweating _—and what was he_ _wearing_ —a familiar man behind him dressed in rich, deep blues.

Frowning, he swallowed before speaking to address him. "Monsieur Combeferre? What brings you here?" 

Combeferre smiled. "I've come to escort you to the ball, Monsieur," he explained gently.

Enjolras looked away. "You don't need to address me so respectfully, Monsieur. Surely from this you can tell I'm no nobleman." 

Combeferre kneeled in front of him and took his hands in his own. "Courfeyrac already told me everything on the way here, Enjolras." He jolted at the mention of his name. "From what I heard, from both him and Grantaire—" Enjolras' hand snapped up at Grantaire's name because _Grantaire spoke of him to his friends?_ "—you are the last type of person to be saying something like that. I trust you of all people would know that your societal status does not dictate the fact of whether or not you get respect?" 

Enjolras shook his head mutely. What in God's name was going on? Combeferre was here to escort him to the _ball?_ Combeferre was willing to do so even after learning who he really was? 

Why? 

Hundreds of questions spinning through his mind, he turned to Courfeyrac to ask the first that sprang on the tip of his tongue. 

"How?" 

Courfeyrac shrugged his shoulders as he tried to suppress his smile. "Pere Valjean said the Prince was expecting you, so…" 

Turning to Pere Valjean, he demanded, "How did you know?" 

Pere Valjean's face remained neutral. "I had a feeling." 

Courfeyrac let out an offended noise. "So you didn't actually know? And yet you sent me to talk to the greatest mind of the sixteenth century _based on a feeling?"_

Beside him, Cosette furrowed her eyebrows. "Wait, if Papa sent you to get da Vinci, then why'd you bring him? No offense," she added hastily. 

"It's fine," Combeferre replied. "He _had_ gone to talk to da Vinci, but he fainted—"

_"I did not—"_

"—so I stepped in to see what was wrong. When he came back around he spilled the entire story to me instead, and since I already knew who you were," he shrugged. "So here I am." He smiled at Enjolras before giving his hands a gentle squeeze. "He's right though. Grantaire really _is_ expecting you." 

Grantaire was expecting him. Even as he tried to say goodbye to him, Grantaire still held out the hope that he would come. 

Oh how he wished he could go; he truly wanted nothing more than to run to him, to run into his arms and be held, be kissed, be loved. 

But Grantaire loved a Comte. 

Enjolras was nothing but a servant. 

Grantaire loved a lie, and Enjolras was tired of dishonesty.

"He's expecting someone who doesn't exist," he said quietly. "My name is Enjolras, and I'm just a servant." 

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. "My lord is a bastard son of a peasant," he said flatly. "Why does that matter?" 

_It makes all the difference,_ he thought. _Because Signor da Vinci made something of himself, and he never lied about who he was._

"I've deceived him." 

"Grantaire will understand. Have faith in him." 

Enjolras shook his head. _No._ He didn't want to try, not again. He didn't want to be vulnerable and open his heart to the possible _what ifs,_ only to be hurt again. It was too demanding. 

"The night is still young, Enjolras. We must get you ready for the ball," Jehan said softly, tugging on his hands. Enjolras shook his head and willed his tears to die away.

"I do not wish to go," he stubbornly persisted. The way his voice cracked would suggest otherwise. 

"Enjolras," he looked at Eponine, "if you don't go, you let Mother and Father win. Do you really want that?" 

Why didn't anyone understand? He _did_ want to go. It was quite clear to anyone's eyes that his heart yearned to see the Prince once more. But how could he? After all the lies—did the Prince even really know him at all? Would he want to know him? 

"How can I face him?" he whispered. 

Combeferre looked at him determinedly. "He deserves to hear the truth from the one he loves."

Enjolras' heart skipped a beat. Grantaire… loved him? 

Truly? 

But even if he did, they were worlds apart. Their love was impossible. 

"A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?" he challenged quietly. 

Combeferre smiled at him. 

"Then I suppose I shall have to make you wings." 

________________________________________________________

The ball was in full swing by the time Grantaire had sobered up enough to make an appearance. He knew what he looked like; he was the Prince of France, his hair should have been tamed and his eyes should not have been marked with shadows. Yet, Grantaire couldn't find it within himself to care. He had planned this night to be, unusual for one as skeptical as himself to think it, magical, one where his life would finally change for the better, and to another extent, the whole of France's too. 

But that magic had sailed away on a boat to Belgium, leaving Grantaire crushed and feeling more hopeless than he had ever felt previously in his life.

One thing, however, must be said. Grantaire decided that this night would still mark an important chapter in his life. He had made a decision. 

He walked up to his Father, inwardly surprised to watch as his Father did not cringe away from his rather lackluster appearance. In fact, if anything, his Father, the _King of France,_ was looking at him sheepishly. 

Grantaire's world was getting madder by the second. 

"Grantaire. Was there something you needed to say?"

He looked at him resolutely. "Yes, Father, I did." He opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to words by his Father. 

"Listen, Grantaire, I…" he trailed off as he fidgeted awkwardly where he stood. His Father cleared his throat before trying once more. "I admit it was unfair of me to put so much pressure on you as I did about the marriage contract." Grantaire raised his eyebrows. This was unexpected. "I just thought it was time to make some changes in your lifestyle. You seemed to have been… floundering." The King sighed. "I know you're human too, Grantaire, you have your own likes and dislikes, but the drinking, the sleeping around, showing up late to council meetings… I was tense." He looked back up. "This university plan—I think it's brilliant. And I think it shows off the tremendous wealth of knowledge and wisdom you have buried within you." The King put his hand over his own. "We don't have to announce anything at all tonight." 

That was a nice sentiment. But it was not what Grantaire needed. He knew instinctively that he could never love another like he did Alexandre, as hard as he may try. So why waste the first opportunity he got? Besides, he would be taking a necessary step for France; he was a Prince of France, and with that came certain responsibilities.

If he couldn't have Alexandre, the closest he could come would be to try and follow his words. 

Boring his gaze directly into his Father's eyes, he declared firmly, "I've made my decision." 

His Father's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh."

________________________________________________________

It was Eponine who hid them.

When he had finally mustered the courage to say yes and take his chances, because Grantaire was there at the ball and Grantaire would be waiting for him because Grantaire loved him, he had slumped back in his seat as he mumbled about how his clothes for the ball were missing.

Eponine had smirked. 

_"I may be a Comte's daughter, but on the inside I'm a street rat like any other. And every street rat knows how to get its paws on whatever scraps they can find."_

So while Jehan and Cosette worked furiously on doing up his face and fitting him into his Father's heavy rich fabrics, still lingering with his essence, as if Enjolras could still feel him give him one last hug, one last push of courage for what he was about to do, Eponine, Courfeyrac, and Valjean all pitched in their efforts to help Combeferre make actual costume wings. When he had said that earlier, Enjolras hadn't really believed he was serious. 

Now that he stood in front of the mirror, the white wings protruding from his back not unlike an angel's, he realized that Combeferre had been entirely serious.

"It's a masque, Monsieur. Normally one would disguise themselves, but seeing as how you're going to reveal the truth, I thought it might be more befitting to dress you in your true form," Combeferre said.

Enjolras sucked in a breath. "And that is?" 

Combeferre smiled. "Well, for Grantaire, an angel. An angel of passion. Of belief firm and strong." He looked at him resolutely. "And tonight, of truth."

Enjolras swallowed with difficulty and turned away. With a hearty shoulder clap, Combeferre moved away to the carriage that stood outside waiting for them. 

He ran a hand through his coiffed curls. Could he really do this? Go to the ball? Was Grantaire really there waiting for him? Or had he moved on? He was the Prince of France after all; who was to say he hadn't already found someone new? 

"I say so, and so does everyone else here." Enjolras blinked at Jehan, who had appeared in front of him and had taken his hands in their own, and whoops, it looks like he just said that all out loud, to his major embarrassment. 

Jehan for the most part, wasn't fazed. "You are so special, Enjolras. You've got a fire inside of you that despite the fierce winds and the pouring rain, still manages to burn brilliantly. The Prince recognized that fire, and I doubt that once warmed up, he'll be able to stay in the cold without the warmth of your passion." Giving his hands a squeeze, they said, "This ball is your chance, Enjolras, to prove a point. That love knows no class, that intelligence knows no class, and if they both don't recognize class, then why should we?" They smiled and looked earnestly into his eyes. "You were born to change minds, Enjolras. And right now, the mind you need to focus on is not a mind but a heart, and that too the Prince's. But I have faith in you. And so does everyone else."

Stunned by their speech, Enjolras didn't know what to say. He had no idea his friends had so much faith in him. Behind Jehan, the rest all stood wearing smiles and Courfeyrac, of course, a grin. His best friend walked up and pulled him in a hug. 

"I'll be sorry to miss it." Enjolras gripped his hands.

"Then come with me," he urged. "We are both of age. All we have to do is find you some clothing that will fit and—"

Courfeyrac shook his head. "You need to focus on yourself tonight, Enj. Besides, we're going to have to tidy up the mansion! I can't have my future brother-in-law picking you up from a hovel!" 

Laughing, he let Courfeyrac pull him once more into a hug. "Kill 'em out there, Enj," he heard him murmur more quietly into his ear. 

With a kiss on forehead from Valjean and each of his friends (except Eponine of course who opted instead for a fist to the arm), he made his way out to the carriage, where Combeferre stood with an outstretched hand. 

"Ready?" 

He cast a glance back at the manor, where his friends all stood, smiling and waving him on. 

_"I have faith in you. And so does everyone else."_

Putting his hand in Combeferre's own, he let Combeferre pull him up into the carriage. 

"I believe so."

________________________________________________________

_This is it._

He could do this. Grantaire would understand because Grantaire _loved him._

All he had to do was march up to Grantaire, in the middle of the garden ball, where everyone could see him— _out in the open, where his step family could spot him_ —and tell him the truth. All he had to do was march right up to him and declare who he was to the man he had been lying to for so long— _the man he was in love with_ —and open himself up, vulnerable, to either acceptance or ridicule.

He could do this.

He could do this.

He couldn’t do this. 

Swift on his heel, he turned to head back into the carriage and back home—and collided into Combeferre.

“Where are you going?” he asked cautiously as he caught him by the shoulders. 

“I can’t do this—Combeferre—it won’t work—he doesn’t love me like this—”

“Calm down, Enjolras, calm down,” he soothed. “It’s okay. I promise you,” he gazed with his calmer eyes into Enjolras’ frantic own, “Grantaire will understand. You need to tell him. You owe him the truth.” 

Enjolras ran an anxious hand through his curls. “I… I don’t… I don’t know Combeferre. How can I do this?”

Combeferre gave him a sympathetic smile. “Enjolras, you preach so much about never letting the social hierarchy weigh you down—that people are people first, that they shouldn’t be defined by their titles. And yet, of everyone you preach it to, you are the last to believe it when it comes to yourself. For once, tonight, when you walk in there, rather than imagine it as a confrontation between a servant and a Prince, realize that it’s a confession from one man to another.” Offering his arm, he smiled and said, “Now hurry. We must make it before they close the grand gates.”

 _Realize that it’s a confession from one man to another._ Was Combeferre right? For one night, could he possibly put aside his insecurities and simply be a person, free of all social constructs and limitations? All this time he had been telling the others not to limit themselves based on their positions as servants—while doing so to himself. But letting go of the concept of who he thought he was after having constantly been told by everyone what he was and how he was supposed to act—what he could only ever dream about and the realities he needed to stick to—was hard, difficult, and a few days ago, would have been out of the question. Combeferre couldn’t possibly expect him to drop those indoctrinated values so easily at the drop of a hat, now could he? Even now, those voices, those attitudes, were still screaming inside his head. _Turn back! You’re not wanted here!_

_The Prince doesn’t want you here!_

But then Enjolras thought about the ghost of a smile, a burning kiss on his lips, a warm embrace around his figure. 

_“I don’t see myself as treating you any different if you were a serf, Comte. I’d still feel myself as enamoured with you like that as I do with you right now.”_

_"It is your lips that have me hypnotized. It is your eyes that have me bewitched. It is your words that have me devoted. It is your soul that has me complete.”_

His title would not defy him. 

Grantaire loved him; surely Enjolras could be brave—for his sake at least.

And with a firm nod to himself, he took Combeferre’s offered arm and stared resolutely at the garden gates.

_Grantaire will understand._

At a stride pace, he made the rest of the way towards the gates, Combeferre beaming beside him.

From behind the grand doors, he caught a voice—the voice of the King.

"...my great privilege to announce the engagement of my son Prince Grantaire…" 

_No!_

Engagement? Grantaire couldn’t be getting engaged! Not before Enjolras told him, not before he confessed, not before he was allowed at least the chance to know whether Grantaire would still love him.

He set his resolve.

_Not before I get there._

"As his Royal Consort, my son has chosen—"

_Breathe Enjolras._

"The—"

_Grantaire will understand._

"Please wait!"

Bursting through the garden gates, he threw open the grand doors, standing proud and tall, Combeferre by his side as his escort, and despite the hundreds of eyes that turned to burn into his figure at the front, he mustered up enough courage to ignore them all as his eyes sought out only one other person. 

His eyes clashed with a very familiar pair of green orbs near the fountain at the centre of the garden. 

Enjolras stood stock still as Grantaire’s jaw went slightly agape, eyes blinking as if Enjolras were nothing more than a phantom, an apparition. His eyes took in his form, and Enjolras refused to look away this time, head held high, daring anyone around him to challenge the reflecting fire light to shine away from him. 

_Grantaire will understand._

Then, as if broken from a trance, Grantaire moved towards him at the front, breaking away from his Father’s side as he came to take Enjolras’ hands in his own. Beside him, Combeferre seemed to retreat back out the garden. 

Eyes wide, Grantaire gave his hands a rather firm squeeze before lifting them to his lips, feeling flesh—real, warm and solid—beneath his lips. Enjolras felt the breath rush out his lungs. “My friends told me you were getting married,” Grantaire said as he laid a hand on his cheek, eyes full of wonder. 

Enjolras shook his head, his own eyes disbelieving that Grantaire would stop so abruptly, would interrupt such a large ball, all for him. “They were misinformed.” A wide smile bloomed on Grantaire’s face, so hopeful. Enjolras’ heart skipped a beat. 

_You owe him the truth._

“Grantaire, there is something I must tell you now, before another word is spoken.” 

Grantaire seemed not to have heard him. “So you’re not engaged, then?” 

Once again shaking his head, he replied, “No, I’m not. But Grantaire, you must listen—”

“I was about to make the worst mistake of my life.” Grantaire laughed deliriously. “Oh thank God for my luck! A few more seconds and I would have definitely earned Bossuet’s title of unluckiest man in France! Speaking of Bossuet, there are a few people I would like you to meet.” And taking his hand, he pulled Enjolras with him through the garden. 

“No—Grantaire, please—I must speak with you.”

“Whatever it is, my Love,” Enjolras’ heart tripped up, “my answer is yes. You shall have it.” 

Enjolras looked to Grantaire’s beaming face in despair. He was running out of time; he needed to tell Grantaire now, before any other sort of problem presented itself. _Why wouldn’t Grantaire just listen?_

He brought him up to a group of five men who, masked they may be, all appeared to be smiling widely.

“See, these idiots right here,” he murmured into his ear, “you’re going to have to put up with these idiots once we get married.” 

Enjolras whipped his head to look at Grantaire wildly. _Married?_ This was all getting so very out of hand. He needed to tell him _now._

“Grantaire, I—”

“Him—the one who looks like he could crush you with one arm—this is Bahorel, and you don’t need to worry too much about him. I’ll keep you safe, Love. Although, I don’t think you of all people would need to be protected; you could probably give him a lecture on respect and reduce him to tears. Or, you know, physically as well. There's something about you that lends superior strength to your rather limb form.” 

The man Grantaire pointed to grinned. “We’ve heard quite a lot about you, Monsieur le Comte. Congratulations on getting R to actually fall for you.”

Enjolras was beginning to feel his resolve begin to crumble. He tugged weakly on Grantaire’s sleeve. 

“Grantaire—”

“Now this fellow here,” he pointed to a bald man “this is the one I was telling you about earlier. This is Bossuet. This young man is our very own little romantic, the one and only Baron Pontmercy.” Pointing to a tall man with curly brown hair he said, “This is my manservant, Feuilly. And this is Joly; you don’t ever have to worry if you ever fall ill, he’ll do a rather exhausting job trying to bring you back to health.”

Whirling him around, he pointed out a group of familiar looking men all waving. “Look! You remember them before, right?” It was Patron-Minette, the bandits from earlier. “I invited them too!”

“Grantaire please.” he whispered. Why was he making this so difficult? Enjolras was feeling his courage diminish. Combeferre wasn’t even there to give him a reassuring nod of the head, or Courfeyrac wasn’t there to hold his shaking hands, he was on his own and— _goddamnit why couldn’t Grantaire just stop and listen?_ “What are you doing?” he asked desperately. 

Grantaire beamed and chuckled heartily. “Is it not obvious?” _No, it’s not, and before you say anything else, I need you to just listen._ “I’m making you a Prince. I'm making you _my_ Prince.”

A loud gasp came from their near right. The crowd parted as his step-parents pushed their way to the front towards where Enjolras stood, horrified at their entrance in the matter. His step-father bared his teeth as he approached him.

"How dare you?" Grabbing him by the collar, he hauled him upwards as he hissed, "How dare you show up here like this, and in these clothes no less—"

_No. No please. Please don't do this. Not now._

He felt himself tugged away as Grantaire's arms wound themselves around his shaking figure. "Contain yourself, Monsieur! How dare you touch him!"

Next to his step father, his step-mother rushed forward, pointing a long, crooked finger. "Sire, you've been had! He is an imposter!"

Above him, Grantaire scoffed incredulously. "An imposter? You are crossing your limits—"

"But she is right, Sire," his step-father interrupted. Reaching out, he locked his grasp around Enjolras' arm, tearing him away from Grantaire's hold, drawing out a sharp cry of pain. Grantaire's eyes flared, but as he stepped forward to pull him back, his step-father put up a hand. "He is an imposter!" 

It hit Enjolras at that moment that his secret would be revealed now. He had wished to do it himself, on his own terms, make that decision by himself, take that step by himself, but like all other things, his step-parents couldn't let him have that either. His truth was being stolen away from him and being given away without his consent.

And as always, Enjolras could do nothing but stand there and will himself not to cry.

Shaking his arm viciously, his step-father declared, "His name is Enjolras, and he has been our family servant for ten years!"

Grantaire stepped forward, fists clenched as he warned, "Monsieur, you are on dangerous ground—"

"Ask him yourself!" his step-mother cried with a dramatic flourish. "He's a grasping, devious little pretender, and it is our duty to expose him as the covetous hoax he is!" Throwing him a poisonous look, she hissed, "Tell them who you really are!" 

Enjolras looked on in despair. _Not like this._ He didn't want it to be like this. How could he even look Grantaire in the eyes as he submitted to revealing himself this way? But what else could he do now? Already, his secret had been spilled; there was no way to go back from this. The only option was to continue to wade through the river he found himself in the middle of. If you've already stepped in, there's no point in going back.

And yet, try as he might, he couldn't get his brain to form proper sentences. In the back of his mind, he could hear the more sensible part screaming at him to simply get it over with, but he found he could not say the words that struggled to reach his tongue. It was as if his mind was desperate to hang onto those final seconds of sheer bliss he had granted Grantaire for so long, ignorant bliss of what the truth about Enjolras was. He didn't want him to know, but his step-mother was staring on expectantly, and there were punishments for disobeying. Helplessly, he repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, eyes stinging as he felt the rest of the crowd's burning gazes, this time unignorable, waiting for his answer. 

As he hesitated longer, his step mother's face contorted in indignant fury. "Tell them!" 

He didn't move.

"You won't tell them, then? You won't even bow to royalty like the peasant you are?" She stepped forward and struck him hard across the face. The world around him spun as he landed, knees screaming with impact, on the ground at Grantaire's feet—with, as his step-mother wished, his head bowed. "Bow!" 

Grantaire let out a roar of fury as he bent to grasp Enjolras by the shoulder and lift him off the ground. "You go too far, Comtesse! How dare you raise your hand on him like that! Your actions disgust me. Alexandre—" 

_Alexandre._

How long had Enjolras allowed Grantaire to use that name on him, see him as a false pretense, see him as a memory rather than a present entity?

The lies weren't fair, he realized. Neither to Grantaire, nor to his Papa, up in heaven watching as his name came under slander. 

Enjolras had to tell him. It didn't matter if it tore his heart in two. The lie had gone one for long enough—and he owed Grantaire the truth. 

There was no other time to wait and tell him. He had to do it now. 

Raising a hand to Grantaire's cheek, he gently guided his head so that his eyes met Enjolras'. He waited a beat for Grantaire to visibly calm. "Grantaire," he started softly, "Alexandre Lamarque was my Father. I… I am what they say," he finally managed to confess.

A beat passed between the two, in which Grantaire's eyes went through a plethora of emotions, as if the seven stages of grief were playing out within him. 

What was he mourning?

Enjolras hoped it wasn't his dead love for him. 

Shock. Denial. Anguish.

Anger. 

His eyes stayed resolved in cold anger. 

Eyes hardening, he took a step back, away from where Enjolras' hand had been gently resting on his cheek. Enjolras gasped softly, as if the mere act of stepping away tore off a fragment of his heart. His hand dropped worthlessly to his side.

"The servant in the orchards," Grantaire said, throat tight, "the apple. That was you, wasn't it?"

Enjolras nodded helplessly. "Please, Grantaire, I can explain—" 

The Prince tilted his head back and gave a bitter laugh. "I always knew there was something so distinctly familiar about you. I kept thinking to myself, _I've seen this man before. But where?_ And your hands! What kind of a nobleman has hands as rough as yours?"

_No. This wasn't how you were supposed to find out. Please, I can fix this, just let me explain._

"Grantaire, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to lie. I didn't want you to find out like this—"

"What happened to all that self righteous virtue, _Alexandre?"_ Enjolras flinched back at his Father's name. "Did that not include lying? Your morals. Of course. There's no way a Comte could carry such values. You must know your values are worthless when in your position, right?"

The words were a slap to the face. "Worthless?" he repeated, unable to believe what he had heard the first time. When Grantaire made no move to correct him, he stood trying in vain to blink away the tears that clouded his vision as he choked out, "You said you believed in me. You said you would find yourself as enamoured with me if I were a serf as opposed to a nobleman." 

"And you said you were a Comte. It seems neither of us were telling the truth," he replied coldly. 

Enjolras shuddered as if the chill from his words made their way into his bones. "Please Grantaire," he begged. Never in his life had he resorted to such a tone, but he was losing his heart here. Desperately, he clung to what Combeferre had told him. _Grantaire will understand. Grantaire will understand. Grantaire will understand._

But Combeferre's words were simply a hollow promise, because here he was, confessing his lies, confessing his love, and yet Grantaire was turning away from him, turning so far out of Enjolras' reach. A broken sob tore itself out of his throat. Grantaire paused and turned back to look at him, pity flashing for a moment in his eyes before hardening once more. 

"Grantaire please—please—" he was sobbing openly now, his first seemingly having opened the floodgates behind his eyes. "Please—I love you! It was only my name—I swear it was my name and status **!** Everything else was real, my Father, my beliefs, _my_ _love._ Please—" 

Grantaire crouched to meet his level. "How can I believe anything you say now that I know you have the capability to lie? Today you'll lie and tell me you love me; tomorrow, you'll lie and tell me you're not lying in the visiting earl's bed."

He reeled back at the accusation. "No," he whimpered weakly. "I wouldn't ever—I wouldn't—please."

He kept repeating that one word. _Please._ It was as if he could fit his entire explanation in there: _please. Please believe me when I say I meant no harm. Please believe me when I say I am who I am just with a different name. Please believe me when I say I have never loved a man the way I have fallen for you. Please believe me when I say I regret the hurt I've caused you, and that I cannot bear to witness any pain on your face. Please. Please. Please._

"Grantaire, I have never felt what I feel for you before. You taught me how to fall for someone. Please, I love you. Please believe me." Gasping, he hid his head in his hands. Shame wasn't a new feeling for him; in fact, it was a daily occurrence, but never had he felt it in such strong waves before. Never had he allowed anyone, apart from Courfeyrac and Pere Valjean back home, to glimpse his tears.

And here he was, breaking down in front of the whole world, and as hard as he tried, his constant flow of tears would not stop. 

Reaching out an arm, he latched on desperately to Grantaire's arm, as he begged with a string of sobbed _please_ 's. 

His hand was shrugged off. And Enjolras fell apart. 

The night air seemed dead, punctuated only by his broken sobs. He was wrong. Combeferre had been wrong. Everyone back at home had been wrong. 

The only ones who had ever been right were his step-parents. 

He had no voice. He would never be heard. His beliefs, his opinions, his values—they were all as likely to be heard as it was likely a Prince would fall in love with and marry a servant. His love would never be heard. 

Enjolras was a servant, and he should have stayed in his position. 

How could he ever think to blame the Prince? Enjolras had broken his own heart dreaming about a future that was never possible, no matter how much his friends teased him into thinking about it. He had broken his own heart by letting himself fall for the one person he could never have, being aware of such a fact, and yet still having the audacity to continue loving him, as if he truly deserved such a privilege. 

Enjolras had broken his own heart, and he was paying the price for it by humiliating himself before the entire Royal Court.

He felt two hands clasp his shoulders— _not Grantaire's because those he knew so well what they felt like_ —and draw his attention up from where he had previously been staring resolutely at the ground, unable to bring himself to look at anyone else. Lifting his eyes, he found himself staring into the eyes of one of the men Grantaire had introduced— _Feuilly._ The man gave him a sad look as he murmured, "Please, for your sake, I think you should leave." 

_Leave?_

Just like that? Leave knowing that Grantaire hated him, hated his very presence. _Leaving_ , he realized, _without hearing Grantaire say the three words I had been so desperately craving to hear._

He struggled to walk closer. "Grantaire—Grantaire please," he begged, voice barely a hoarse whisper. 

Grantaire inclined his head just the slightest in his direction as he said flatly, "Do not address me so informally, Monsieur. I am a Prince of France. And you…" he paused before he jerked his head in the direction of his step-parents. "...you are just like the rest of them." 

_No._

_No. No. No. No. No._

Of all the insults to have hurled at him, this was the one thing he could not bear. To be compared to that which he hated most, that which had made his life hell, that which he lived everyday in fear of, that which he made an example to never treat anyone the way they treated others—to be compared to _that,_ in the eyes of the man he had so foolishly loved, was the worst of his blows. Crying hard, harder than the rain likely to come over them, he turned and fled from the garden as quick as his feet could carry him, practically flying over the path, ignoring the carriage waiting and running back the way he knew the manor would be. 

He raced past the line of carriages—and collided once more with Combeferre who grasped him firmly by the shoulders.

"Enjolras! Oh Lord, are you alright? What's wrong?"

He shook his head. He was done sharing his problems; Combeferre had told him Grantaire would understand, but he had been wrong, he had been so wrong, and Enjolras had made himself vulnerable upon his advice, only to be _so very wrong._

So, he shoved past him, ignoring Combeferre's many calls of his name as he wrapped his arms around his trembling frame and ran home, glad the rain that beat down on his head could hide the tears streaming hot and heavy down his face, cold tempering burning hot. As he rushed to take another step, he tripped, falling flat on his hands; frustrated, broken, and even a bit scared, he tore the wings off his back. 

_I was never meant to fly._

He pulled the boots off—his Father's last memory. He wasn't worthy of carrying his Father's name and essence with him either. In opposite directions, he flung each boot, one landing unseen behind a thicket of trees, the other falling right in the middle of the street, and he fled without turning so as to avoid the temptation to take back what he had so clearly not earned. 

He didn't notice Combeferre stop to pick up his one boot and head back to the castle.

________________________________________________________

"Grantaire! What have you done?"

Sighing to himself, he knocked back the rest of his wine and pulled a face. Could no one really just leave him alone to drink in peace?

"What have I done, Combeferre?" he asked, slightly swaying on his feet as he rose to meet him. Grantaire certainly wasn't a lightweight drunk—the copious amounts of alcohol he had begun to down at an early age had adjusted his body to taking in cup after cup of the liquid without losing him his senses—but even now, after the many cups he had knocked back, his vision was beginning to go just the slightest bit blurry. "That is a rather broad question. You're going to have to be a lot more specific." Counting off on his fingers, he listed, "I've been born—although, honestly I don't really think that was my doing—I've successfully kept down ten cups of wine, thereby besting Bahorel who threw up after seven, I've managed to have fallen asleep at the stables once—"

"You know damn well that's not what I'm talking about!" Combeferre snapped. 

Grantaire his eyebrows. "Really? Well then do enlighten me. It's not my fault your question was so open-answered." 

"How could you do such a thing to him? To Enjolras?" 

_How could_ I _do such a thing to_ him? _How could he lie to me like that, lie about who he was and prove himself unworthy of my trust?_

Grantaire resisted the urge to snap back. Did no one seem to care for his feelings either? Following his abrupt departure from the ball, his friends had all chased him down in his room, confronting him about what had so recently transpired, and while a few of them seemed more sympathetic, the others— namely Bahorel—had sharply rebuked him for what he had said, as if it weren't _his_ feelings that had taken the sharpest blow when Alexan— _Enjolras'_ true identity was revealed. 

Cocking his head, he recited in a mocking tone, “I was born to privilege, and with that privilege comes specific obligations.” Hadn’t Alexand—Enjolras told him that? How could he possibly first lecture him about responsibility and then expect him to accept a _servant_ as his lover?

“It’s not a question about your obligations, though, is it, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked quietly.

Remaining silent, he ignored the man’s words as he poured himself another glass of wine. 

_“I’d like for you to call me… Alexandre.”_

“Position never mattered to you before.”

_"I had never known such passion before I met you. I feel as if you've taught me as much—perhaps even more than—as you claim I have taught you."_

He knocked back his drink.

“You don’t care that he’s a servant.”

_"Please—I love you!”_

“That’s not why you’re hurt—you’re hurt because he hid such a large part of him. You feel as if you do not know him at all. And yet, despite that, you still love him.”

Smashing the glass against the wall across from him, he shot out of his chair and roared, “Yes I still love him!” Running an agitated hand through his unruly curls, he continued, “No I don’t care that he’s a servant! I still love him, but how can I love him full if I do not know whether he really loves me?” 

“Whether he loves you?” Combeferre repeated incredulously. “Have you any idea what he went through to get here tonight?”

“He lied to me! How can I believe a word he says now that I know he’s capable of deceit?” 

Combeferre scoffed. “His one lie is outrageous enough for you to disregard every word he’s ever said?” Shaking his head, Combeferre clenched his jaw and said, “He came to tell you the truth and you fed him to the wolves.”

Grantaire shook his head and laughed bitterly? Did he feed Enjolras to the wolves, or did Enjolras steal away his heart and feed _that_ to the wolves? 

In the more sensible part of his brain, he realized what the real issue was, and he knew Combeferre knew it too. Did Enjolras really not trust him enough to tell him who he really was? Did he truly believe he was shallow enough that he would judge him, treat him, _love him_ differently if he had told him he was really a servant and not a Comte?

Was his faith in Grantaire really that weak? And if his faith was already so weak, who’s to say that the love he claimed for him even really existed at all?

After all, who could love a man as _ignorant, arrogant, and selfish—_ as Enjolras no doubt thought he was—as Grantaire?

Grantaire knew he loved Enjolras—he had since he had first seen the believer in which hope soared bright enough to draw even the greatest cynic to believe.

But he simply could not love a man who had burnt the bridge of trust the moment he had opened his mouth and lied about his name, leaving him to wonder whether everything afterwards had been just an illusion in his mind, his heart morphing even the smallest of acts into a desperate vision and acceptance of love.

“What could you know about love?" he asked coldly. "You spend all your time tinkering around in da Vinci's workshop. I doubt you could truly lecture me about it."

Combeferre's expression turned stony. "I know," he said quietly, "that a life without love is no life at all. Whatever sort of love that may be, and whoever it may be between." 

"And love without trust?" he retorted. "What of that? Besides, I've survived this long. Clearly I've done at least something right."

Combeferre stared on for a moment more before beginning to move. From his coat he drew a pristine white boot, one—he realized with a start—from the pair Enjolras had been wearing that night. Setting it out on his table, he finally remarked quietly, “He was your match, Grantaire.”

Reeling back as though struck across the chest, he watched as Combeferre turned and left. 

How? How could someone he barely thought he knew be his match? Did Enjolras really love him? Or was that all part of the charade too? 

_"I had never known such passion before I met you. I feel as if you've taught me as much—perhaps even more than—as you claim I have taught you."_

_"Please—I love you!”_

Turning, he picked up the boot off the table and twirled it in his hands 

_He was your match._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know the seven stages of grief wasn't a system they knew of back then but like... oh well.
> 
> :( :( :(
> 
> Emotional Enjolras is one of my favourite things to write... even if I have to put him through a little bit of pain :)
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> I WANT TO KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS CHAPTER... TALK TO ME...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the ball. Consequences and shocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Sorry for the last chapter (or am I?) Anyways, this chapter is a little short.
> 
> TW: Mention of physical abuse. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

The windows weren’t clean enough. 

They weren’t clean enough. They weren’t clean enough. 

There were smudges and dirt and dust and no matter how hard he scrubbed and scrubbed, Enjolras found he could not get them to shine. 

So he scrubbed ever more furiously.

“I have it on good authority that before your rather embarrassing debut last night, the Prince was going to choose Montparnasse as his Prince Consort,” his step-mother drawled from where she sat, watching as he worked. 

Enjolras’ throat tightened, but he did not falter in his work. The Prince and his affairs were far behind in his mind now. He had learned his lesson yesterday, and he did not need the reminder of it. At this point, all he was doing was waiting until the Prince came running back to take Montparnasse as his groom and leave them the rest be, at the manor where he could actually strive to make a difference. The Prince was the past. The manor was the future. 

Enjolras had no need of love. It was simply an unnecessary emotion that got in the way of accomplishing his real goals. 

Besides, he was never destined to have that love requited. What use was it dwelling on it? He had already dwelled on it long enough the night before when he cried himself to sleep in the fireplace.

Last night, he had locked himself in the basement and shut out the rest of his friends as they frantically banged on the door and begged him to open up. He hadn’t wanted to trouble them, and had to kindly ask them for one night alone when they threatened to call over Pere Valjean to break it down.

And so, he judged he had no need for love. He had so many chores to do, so less time to do them, and could not afford to waste any time thinking about the night before. Or the several days before, either. Least of all, he couldn’t afford to waste time thinking about the Prince. 

He would not think about the Prince.

He would not think about the Prince. 

He would not think about the Prince.

Because if the Prince couldn’t even spare a single thought for a peasant servant, why should he spare any for him?

“Men are so fickle, aren’t they?” His step-mother’s musings jerked him from his thoughts. “One minute they’re spouting sonnets—and the next, you’re back to being hired help.”

_Not exactly ‘hired.’_

Rising from her seat, she came up beside him to inspect the window he had thoroughly finished attacking. “I must say, however,” she ran a long nail down the glass, “I have never seen you so dedicated to your chores.”

Enjolras’ voice hardened, and despite the lashing he had received the night before as a consequence for his ‘debacle at the ball,’ he raised his eyes to glare directly into his step mother’s. “What makes you think I’m doing this for any of you?”

She raised her eyebrows. “My my. Feisty this morning, aren’t we?”

There it was again. Enjolras didn’t understand what was happening. Aside from his punishment last night, neither of his step-parents had so much as laid a finger on him, nor had threatened or verbally abused him in any sort of way. Why? It was all very confusing. After yesterday… shouldn’t they be more furious?

Not that it would matter if they chose to raise a hand on him considering he was almost sure he could no longer feel a thing, neither physically nor emotionally. Last night he felt as if his heart had been glass, taken and shattered beyond repair, fragments lost to the wind forevermore never to find his spirit again.

This morning, he woke up and simply felt numb—spirit deadened, emotions dulled, strength diminished. 

Picking up his bucket, he stored the thought away to ponder later and moved to pass, when his step-mother blocked his way. As patient as he could sound, he grit out, “Please let me pass.”

“You’ve brought this on yourself, you know.”

The statement caught him off-guard. Brought what on himself? 

Ignoring the growing unease at her ambiguous words, he said, “I have work to do.” 

“Let the others handle it.” Again, he moved to pass, but was blocked once more.

Blocked from moving to pass. Blocked from ever living peacefully without fear. Blocked from seeing his words have meaning and actions have impacts. Blocked from ever allowing himself to think of himself as more than just a servant.

At that moment, his numbness evaporated in the atmosphere, and he felt the one emotion that had grown in his body after yesterday’s revelation—despair—rise up swirling with white hot rage. 

Throwing aside the bucket, he threw up his hands and cried, “Don’t you understand? You’ve won! Go move into your palace and let us be!” He hated how much his voice trailed off into a beg in the end. 

His step-mother smiled mysteriously. “You are no longer our problem anymore.”

_Problem._

Honestly, Enjolras didn’t know why his heart was breaking, nor did he think it could break anymore than it already had. What did he expect? Was he a fool to actually imagine that somewhere, deep inside their wicked hearts, his step parents may have held even the smallest bit of affection for him? He was simply their problem, nothing more.

And yet, despite knowing this, it still stung to hear his step mother declare it so freely. “Problem?” he whispered. “Is that all I am to you people? A problem?” 

“What did you expect to be?” she asked coldly.

“I don’t know!” he snapped. “I just thought…” he bit his lip and took a shuddering breath. “I have done everything you and step father have ever wanted. I have taken every taunt, every hit, every sort of abuse without complaint. I have never sought to actively displease you… and yet you denied me the only thing I’ve ever wanted.” 

His step-mother cocked her head. “Really? And what was that?”

“What do you think?” he whispered. “I never knew my Mother. Papa died when I was eight. I was so, so lonely.” Why was he spilling what he had kept hidden in his heart for so long? Did he expect her to actually understand? Whatever it was, he found that once he had started, he could not stop. “I was young, and I wanted someone to guide me. You and step father were the only parents I knew. Was there ever a time,” his voice cracked like the glass he kept thinking of so often now, “that either of you, in even the smallest of measure, loved me at all?” 

There it was. He finally said it. For so long, he had harboured the shameful want that he had wanted his step parents—who he had talked of so negatively with his friends, who he had for so long suffered abuse at the hands of, who he had hated so much—to like him. How long would he deny the feeling that whenever he saw the way his step mother doted and fawned upon Montparnasse and even Eponine, who couldn’t want any less to do with her, he too perhaps wanted to feel so wanted and loved too? Was it so wrong to long for that familiar parental love, one that promises protection and comfort, the love he had lost so early on in his own life, the love he had lost ten years ago? Was it so wrong that when he had first lost his Father, when he would see his step siblings sit at the table near his step parents, he would try join them for family dinner?

As he blinked his tears back, clearing his vision and glanced into his step mother’s loveless eyes, he realized the answer was yes. There was never going to be any love from their side, and it would only continue to hurt him to try and seek love in a place in which it would never exist for him. 

“How can anyone love a pebble in their shoe?” she answered coldly. 

There was his answer. That was it.

He would never try again. And maybe that fact, that he should give up in this meaningless pursuit, perhaps comforted him. 

Calming his breath, he cleared his throat to ask once again to let him pass, but stopped short when Jehan came running towards them. 

“Enjolras!” They grabbed onto his hand and tugged him towards the front of the manor. “Come quick! It’s back!”

Giving him a quizzical look, he asked, “Jehan you’re not making any sense. What’s back?” 

Turning around briefly, they gave him a quick smile as they replied, “The stolen items! They’ve all been returned.”

The stolen items? Surely he couldn’t mean… 

They came to a halt in the front yard, where his step father was making deep conversation with—Enjolras’ face twisted—with Felix Tholomyes.

At the sound of his footsteps, both of their heads turned in his direction.

“Enjolras. Good. Right on time,” his step father grunted. The feeling of unease his step mother planted inside him grew. Right on time for what?

Eponine walked up beside her Father, crossing her arms as she inspected the place. Indeed, Jehan had been right; the grounds of the manor were teeming with men all carrying the missing goods, and for a moment, just a moment, Enjolras felt a thrill of happiness as he caught sight of his Father’s things brought back safe and in sound condition. “The books? The paintings? The candlesticks? You sold them to him?” she asked, jerking her head in the direction of Tholomyes. 

“Yes,” his step father answered. Enjolras felt a surge of anger through his veins. How dare they sell his Father’s things? Without talking to him about it, without any thought of respect for his spirit, his step father simply sold it off. “I couldn’t have us looking like paupers when the King arrives.” 

Though he wanted nothing more than to tell his step father off for giving away his Father’s stuff as if it had no value, he knew it would be better to simply keep his mouth shut and remain grateful that it had at least been returned. And apparently by Felix Tholomyes of all people. 

Turning to face him, he stiffly said, “Thank you, Monsieur. This means the world to us.”

Tholomyes grinned ferally and stepped closer to him. “I’m a businessman, Enjolras, not a philanthropist.”

_What?_

Shaking his head, he unconsciously took a step back and murmured, “I don’t understand.” 

His step-brother came to stand by his step father. “We couldn’t have you around to distract the Prince.”

Tholomyes took a step forward. “The Comte and I have come to an arrangement.” 

_An arrangement? What sort of arrangement?_

His heart pounded as the feeling of unease exploded into full grown panic. 

“For all this,” his step father explained, “I gave to him… you.” 

Enjolras blinked. “What?”

Quicker than the wings of a butterfly, Tholomyes hand shot out to wrap around his wrist in an iron grip. Gasping, he tried in vain to free himself when the realization finally hit him.

He had been sold.

To Felix Tholomyes. 

“No!” Struggling, he aimed a powerful kick to the man’s shin. Tholomyes released him, cursing as he bent down to soothe the spot, allowing Enjolras the chance to bolt. He collided with one of his larger men, who gripped him tight by the waist and slammed him down onto the hard paved path. Groaning, he struggled in vain against a second man’s hold on both his hands. “Let go of me!” 

From his peripheral, he could spot the rest of his friends cry out and try to rush towards his side, only to be stopped by the other men, Pere Valjean struggling against four on him at the same time. He tossed his head from side to side as he continued to free his hands, his body pinned by the weight of his attacker. “No! Let go!” The man curled his free hand into a tight ball and brought his fist down on his head. 

The world spun and gave way to silent, empty blackness after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :( :( :(
> 
> I love compounding the angst. It's just... *chef's kiss*
> 
> :) :) :)
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> TALK TO ME...I CRAVE INTERACTION...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I think this chapter is pretty self-explanatory, so I'll just let you read it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

The cathedral was beautifully adorned, shimmering threads of gold visible everywhere, from the ceiling of the church, to Princess Musichetta's dress, the colour was everywhere, meant to inspire unbridled enthusiasm and joy in everyone who was in attendance at the wedding.

It was beautiful.

Grantaire hated it.

At the foot of the altar sat the Spanish Princess, who, if he had to admit, in all honesty was quite beautiful, with her warm brown skin against pale gold, though she seemed rather more interested in both Joly and Bossuet, her eyes skipping over to them rather than stay focused on the actual groom of the wedding.

Could Grantaire really blame her, though, considering his own thoughts were on someone else, too?

"You don't seem very happy with this." 

He jerked out of his trance, surprise flitting over his face as he raised his eyes to look at the Spanish Princess, who for the first time since he had ever heard of her, spoke. 

“We gather here to unite these two people in marriage…” 

He felt his mouth run dry; what would he say? He supposed it would be rather rude to tell the one you were a few minutes away from being declared married to that you only ever loved and would love one man, and that this marriage was never destined to work out. How could he possibly tell her that he would like nothing better to do than to get up and bolt from here because _oh my God I can't do this just sitting in this Church without Enjolras is tough enough, an eternity without him, married to a woman I do not love would be unbearable._

What was he doing, still sitting here? 

That's right, getting married. Because he was born to privilege and that privilege came with certain obligations. 

"You can tell me. Come on. Don't tell me I've just learned that the man I'll be sharing a bed with—" Grantaire shifted uncomfortably at the thought—"is one of those machismo, 'I hold in all of my manpain' types."

Sighing, Grantaire answered, "Truthfully? I don't even want to be here right now." 

"Neither do I." 

He snapped his head up to look at her. 

"What?" 

“The essence of this commitment is the acceptance of each other in entirety, as lover, companion, and friend…”

Princess Musichetta raised her eyebrows. "What? You think you're the only one unhappy with this arrangement?" When he found himself too dumbfounded to speak, she rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath, "Do you really think that everyone is falling head over heels for you on their first meeting?" 

No, Grantaire didn't think that, and he had the memories of a fiery blond in an orchard to prove that. 

"But why?" 

He quirked an eyebrow. "Pardon me?" 

"You said you don't want to be here," the Princess said. "Why?" 

_Why?_

_Because lately my thoughts have been consumed by a man who up until yesterday I thought went by a name and title completely different to his own. In my dreams I see him smile as he draws closer in my arms and talks about the need for passion in a life so devoid of it. I imagine him by my side on the throne, enacting change and ruling with the voice of the people, governing a greater France as my Prince. I hear him whisper my name in the night, without titles, without ceremony, and I whisper his name_ — _his real name_ — _back into the wind and hope foolishly that the night sky will carry my plea, my prayer, and call him back to me. I recall as his hope burned brighter than the embers of fire, powerful enough that I started to believe._

_Why?_

_Because I am in love, and I abandoned the man I had given my heart, and instead turned tail to marry a woman I do not love._

_Why?_

_Because I am in love with Enjolras, and I would see no one kneel beside me at the foot of this altar other than him._

_Why?_

_Because I allowed one lie to harden me in the moment, while ignoring that Enjolras’ actions are the realest, most vulnerable and bravest things to do, and I turned him away for good, even if my heart still belongs to him._

“...One in which both give their love freely and without jealousy…” 

Instead of answering, he shot back, "Why don't _you_ want to be here?" 

Princess Musichetta snorted. "I think it's pretty obvious: I'd rather not marry a man I only met once face to face, and that too at our own wedding. Besides, you look nice enough, but I'm just not interested. Sorry," she added, not really looking very sorry at all.

Grantaire grinned. "No harm done." He appreciated that of all things, the Princess was straightforward, no beating the bush. 

"What about you?" 

"What about me?" 

She huffed (not unlike another rather passionate man he knew who would often take to huffing adorably when irritated, and he would also scrunch up his nose a little and… where was this going?) and glared at him. "You know what I mean. Spill. I know it's about the servant boy, isn't it?" 

Grantaire almost gave himself whiplash from how hard and quick he turned his head to look at her. "How do you know about that?" he murmured.

The Princess raised an eyebrow. "I thought that you would be aware of how quick news travels through the royal courts—especially news of scandals." He gulped unconsciously under her look of intense scrutiny. "I wouldn't be surprised if Britain is already using this as a tool to smear the name of the French monarchy."

If Enjolras were here, he would have made some remark about how the French monarchy had already smeared their name by continuing to live life in unnecessary opulence while the rest of France starved. 

But Enjolras wasn't. And that was the whole problem, wasn’t it?

“You know, I don’t really know you Grantaire—”

“You just met me today, not much of a surprise _—_ ”

“ _—_ But rejecting a man just because he’s a servant? That seems harsh, for you. And really shallow.”

Grantaire clenched his jaw. How many times would he continue to have to listen to the same accusation? “I didn’t turn him away because he’s a servant,” he replied, voice tight. 

The Princess raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then perhaps you should care to enlighten me, because we’re about moments away from being declared husband and wife, and I’d like to be able to talk some sense into you before you make the dumbest mistake in both your's and my life.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, he retorted, “You know it takes two to tango, right?”

“That’s not an explanation.” 

He sighed in frustration and ran an agitated hand through his curls. “How can I…” he trailed off. Princess Musichetta waved her hand subtly.

“Yes?”

Dropping his hand to his side, he asked, “How can I claim to love him if I don’t even know who he really is?” 

The Princess gave him a disbelieving look. “All he did was lie about being a nobleman. From what I've heard from Joly and Bossuet—”

“When did you even have time to meet them—”

“—It seems as if that’s the only thing he was ever dishonest about. Besides, he had good reason to have lied to you about who he was. Do you think you would have ever been allowed the time of day to see him if your parents knew you were courting a servant? Do you think he would have ever had the chance to meet you if he wasn’t dressed as a Comte?”

In his head, Grantaire already knew this; he also knew, however, that the lie was a twofold problem. Alright, he was willing to accept the fact that Enjolras had first dressed as a nobleman to gain his attention—or, more likely, to free that serf he remembered, from Cartier’s voyage—but that was in the beginning. Later, when he had been alone with Grantaire, even in the forest, why… 

“But why did he feel the need to continue to act as a nobleman afterwards?” he pressed on. “Does he really think so little of me that I wouldn’t accept him based on who he was? That I would turn aside because he’s a servant?”

The Princess gave him a flat stare. “I don’t know. You seemed to really give off that sort of impression yesterday.”

“That’s not what I meant to do!” he snapped irritatedly. Regaining his calm, he continued, “He doesn’t trust me, he has no sort of faith in me—and what is love without faith in each other?” He gestured in the direction of the unsuspecting Priest who continued to read aloud wedding verses.

In front of him, Musichetta looked both ways to see if her hand was visible to the watching audience, then subtly reached out and smacked Grantaire upside the head. He winced.

“What the hell was that for?” he demanded.

Princess Musichetta shook her head in disbelief. “Did you really just say that he has no faith in you?”

Frowning, he replied, “Yes,” as if there was nothing wrong with his statement. 

Musichetta pinched the bridge of her nose. “Grantaire, you’re going to give me a headache. I cannot lead a married life like this.” Looking up flat into his eyes she said, “Enjolassie—”

“ _Enjolras—”_

“—trusted in you, had enough _faith_ in you, that he had attended the Masque against his lord’s permission and revealed who he really was in front of all who came. He had enough faith in you to think you would accept him, that his truth would not be mocked, and that you would not turn away.”

Shame began to colour in his cheeks. “I… I didn’t… It really was quite a shock to take in.”

Sighing, Musichetta continued, “Do you have any idea how much courage it must have taken for him to disobey his feudal master’s command and show up, in front of his face, to tell the truth? He must have had an immense amount of faith, Grantaire. And you shattered it.”

He felt his throat dry up. Now when he thought about it that way… 

He realized that's what was really the problem; he hadn't been thinking. Yesterday's revelation had left him shocked beyond compared. That, coupled with the hurt he felt when he realized that Enjolras wasn't who Grantaire had thought he was, that he had lied because he didn't trust him enough to tell the truth, had left him reeling, hurt, and angry enough not to truly realize what he was saying. 

Not that that was a sufficient excuse. The words were already fading from his mind, and yet he knew that they would forever be ingrained into Enjolras'. And all because he couldn't understand the mountain-high levels of faith Enjolras really had for him, something so plain now that Musichetta pointed it out. 

But what had been done had been done. His words had likely lost him Enjolras forever, and his actions would always haunt him. It was too late. 

"It's not too late." As if she had read his mind, Musichetta rebuked his statement, casting a quick nervous glance up at the Priest who seemed to be nearing the end of his verses. "It's never too late in love."

On a normal day, Grantaire would have snorted and rolled his eyes at such a statement, but seeing as it was far from one, he allowed himself to ponder her words. 

Would Enjolras still accept him? Was there any way to make amends for what he had done? 

Was it still worth it to try?

_"How else can you live life if not with passion, Grantaire?"_

_"I had never known such passion before I met you. I feel as if you've taught me as much—perhaps even more than—as you claim I have taught you."_

_"Please —I love you!”_

Yes. There was every reason to try. Maybe Enjolras would turn him away as he did him, but the thought of his rejection didn't hurt as much as the thought of spending a lifetime bonded to someone he did not feel for while never knowing whether his feelings had a chance of being reciprocated. 

"What… what do I do?" 

Musichetta looked thoughtful. "You fix your mistake. You apologize and make amends. You show him that his faith was not misplaced, and that it is wholeheartedly reciprocated as well."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Yes… but how?" 

With a piercing gaze, she replied, "That is something you'll have to figure out yourself, Grantaire." 

Confused by her sudden mysticism, Grantaire could not do much but nod in agreement, until one other thought made its way into his head. 

His shoulders sagged. "My Father will never accept a servant as my chosen Consort."

Musichetta raised her eyebrows. "You need to give your Father more credit. By the way he scowled at me when I entered the church today, I'm quite sure he had someone else in mind when he envisioned you kneeling here today. Someone who apparently inspired in you what he thinks is the brilliant idea to build a university, and I can only guess who they are…" 

Grantaire looked at her with understanding dawning in his eyes. Everything that she had told him… 

"It's all open for you, Grantaire," she said quietly. "I don't think there's anyone of great importance who objects to your love. Fate is giving you another chance; don’t waste it."

"...Do you take Princess Musichetta of Spain as your lawful wife to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do you part?"

Musichetta gave him a soft smile. "Well? You heard his words. Do you promise to love me and cherish me until death do us part? Or is someone else already taking up that space?" 

Grantaire stared on for a moment.

_"Please—I love you!”_

There was no one he would ever love like Enjolras. There was no one he would rather have and hold for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, than Enjolras. There was no one else he would love and cherish like Enjolras, and even then, Grantaire was quite sure that not even death would be able to stop his love for him.

Marius Pontmercy really was having quite a bit of an effect in terms of the way he phrased his thoughts of love. Maybe reading that little diary of his hadn’t been such a good idea. 

"Grantaire!" He jerked out of his trance. Musichetta was already rising, as if she instinctively knew his impending answer, and she began to dust off her dress. "Give Monseigneur Bienvenu your answer." More subtly, she inclined her head to the right and mouthed _go._

A wide grin splitting his face, he shot to his feet and exclaimed, "No!" 

The Priest blinked. "Sorry?" 

Grinning wider, he repeated once more, "No! I do _not_ take her to be my wife, or my lover, or my consort." Turning to address the rest of the crowd, he explained, "Someone else has already claimed that place in my heart. And I'm going to win him back."

He turned once more to the Parish Priest, who smiled and touched his head in blessing.

With adrenaline rushing through his veins, he turned to the side entrance and bolted towards the stables. 

By this time tomorrow, he would once more hold Enjolras in his arms, this time as his lawful husband, or Grantaire wasn't the Prince of France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean obviously he doesn't get married, what would that solve?
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> I know this chapter was a little short but... TALK TO ME... WHAT DO YOU THINK...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras wakes up a servant at the Tholomyes manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> We're almost done!
> 
> TW: ATTEMPTED NON-CON. PLEASE STOP READING AT "MARRY ME" AND START AGAIN AT THE PAGE DIVIDER IF THIS AFFECTS YOU. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

The manor was his best bet. Well, it was his only bet. After all, where else could Enjolras have gone? As much it pained him to say—and he vowed he would do better when he was king so that the only lives people could own were their own—Enjolras was still the property of his lord. He had to be at the manor. He figured it would be quite simple; he would take Enjolras away from that hellhole, along with whatever friends he had mentioned before, and then leave his lords to rot in the dungeons. It wouldn’t be too difficult. 

That is, if Enjolras still, by some miracle, wanted him. Which, as the seconds passed by while he rode for the Thenardier manor, seemed a slimming prospect. Really, why would he? After being humiliated and insulted and thrown aside by the one person who should have trusted him and treated him better than he ever had, like the king he should have been treated like, why would he believe in his sorry excuses? Grantaire wasn’t sure if he would forgive himself; he could only do something he hadn’t done in a long while—hope. Hope that Enjolras had that heart of gold he couldn’t seem to find within himself the night of the ball. 

Outside the front of the manor, an elderly man was pruning the roses rather catatonically. A distracted part of Grantaire’s mind couldn’t help but notice that the man was quite buff for a gardener doing something so gentle as take care of flowers.

It seemed the Thenardier family hadn't yet reached home, to Grantaire's immense relief. Dismounting from his horse, he approached the man haphazardly; he had a gentle face, but he also looked like he could probably throw Grantaire through to the opposite end of the manor’s large field without breaking a sweat. 

At his footsteps, the man jumped, visibly caught off-guard, though what he could possibly be wary of, Grantaire didn’t know. His gaze darted to Grantaire’s, his look of alarm smoothing out into a face of neutral disinterest as he sank into a bow.

“Your Highness. How was the wedding? Please do not take it rudely if I ask why you are not spending this time with Her Highness the Princess of Spain.” 

Grantaire raked a hand through his errant curls. “Uh, well,” he stuttered, most unlike any Prince of a power like France should. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I did not marry today.”

The old man raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Has the wedding been postponed.” 

Grantaire paused. “Yes… I suppose it has," he answered thoughtfully. Shaking his head, he continued, "But not with Musichetta. I will not be marrying her.” 

The old man's face turned concerned. "His Highness will not be marrying the Spanish Princess? Has the alliance with Spain been broken?" 

"No. Not at all. In fact, something tells me our alliance with Spain is stronger than ever before," he replied amusedly, mind flashing to the way Musichetta had snuck into the throng of noblemen, seeking out Joly and Bossuet when he had made a run for it. "I didn't marry Musichetta simply because…" He struggled with his words. "Because I couldn't. I couldn't marry her when my heart already belongs to someone else." 

The old man's face went impassively neutral once more. "Oh? And who would that lucky one be?"

Grantaire looked him in the eyes. "I think you already know who." Then, in a softer voice, he added, "Where is he?"

The old man held his gaze for an admittedly terrifying moment more before turning back to his roses. "You realize you've hurt him deeply?" 

He sucked in a sharp breath. "Yes. Yes, I'm… I'm aware. My actions were… reprehensible," he said, mind flashing back to the words Enjolras had used when he had revealed himself the first time in the orchard.

The old man continued gardening. "He spent the night crying." 

Grantaire flinched violently. The thought of Enjolras crying was already unbearable; he had seen him in so many different ways—fiery, passionate—up until the point of the ball, he had never thought of him crying. The thought that it was because of _him_ that he had cried himself to sleep… 

"I need to see him. I need to let him know I'm sorry. I know that he likely won't accept me; hell, it might even be better if he turns me away like I did that night but…" he struggled with his words. "I would never forgive myself if I didn't at least try and beg him for forgiveness. Please."

The old man turned to him, staring with abject pity on his face. It seemed as if the old man had taken mercy on him, because he opened his mouth to ask, "You want to know where he is?" 

Grantaire nodded breathlessly. "Yes."

The old man's face took on an expression of pain. "He has been sold." 

_What?_

Grantaire shook his head. He couldn't have heard that right. 

" _Sold?"_ he repeated incredulously. When the old man made no move to contradict him, his eyes went wide and he ran a panicked hand through his hair. "To whom?" 

The old man looked down. "Felix Tholomyes. Just after the Masque." 

Grantaire's head spun. Enjolras? Sold? He recalled who Tholomyes was; he had never liked the man. Arrogant with a leering gaze for those he ought not look at, he always struck him as a nasty man who would have been better if done away with. 

And now Enjolras belonged to him. 

No. That was backwards thinking. No matter what their backwards society said, no one was anyone else's property. Especially not Enjolras.

Well then. Maybe his plan wouldn't be so simple after all. But it was worth the work. Enjolras was worth the work. He would go looking for him at Tholomyes' manor, and steal him away from there to become his husband. Yes, that was it. 

As long as Enjolras wanted him, that was. Which, as the seconds passed by—

_Stop._

He really didn't have time for those same insecurities. Considering he would be seeing Enjolras soon enough, he figured he would be facing those insecurities anyways, but right now he needed to focus on actually getting him back first. 

With a wild, frenzied look, he took up the old man's hands in his own, accidentally startling him. "I promise you I will get him back." With a firm grip, he said, "Tell no one we have spoken. All shall sort itself out."

________________________________________________________

Struggling under the weight of the multiple swords Tholomyes burdened him to carry, Enjolras used his elbow to deliver a sharp knock at the door, pushing his way when he heard an _“Enter,”_ from the other side, careful not to trip himself up on the iron chains bound around his ankles. Heaving the load onto the table, he flexed his arms and pointedly did not glance in Tholomyes’— _his new lord’s_ —direction, though he could feel his leer burn directly into his figure. 

Tholomyes tutted as he strolled over. “Oh, I do so hate to see you in irons.”

He set about arranging the clash of swords laid on the table. “Then remove them,” he replied, monotonous. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Tholomyes grin sharply. 

“I would have, had you not tried to escape the first time.” Enjolras grimaced as he remembered his first escape attempt when he had found himself in an unknown bed, in an unknown room, in an unknown manor. Could he really be blamed for his reaction, though? When his vision had cleared and the first face he had seen was Felix Tholomyes’ looming over his own, panic had kicked in beside instinct, which had him curling his fist and aiming, bolting as soon as Tholomyes doubled over in pain, clutching at his bloody nose. Unfortunately, however, seeing as how the door was locked, he was caught mere seconds later, hauled up around the middle and knocked out once more with God knows what. 

His escape attempt had not worked, and the next time he awoke it had been with heavy iron shackles around his ankles, but he counted it as a small victory when he had noticed Tholomyes’ slightly crooked nose.

“Perhaps if you would just promise me you wouldn’t try and run again…”

Gritting his teeth, he replied, "I have no reason to stay." 

"Oh but you do." Tholomyes sounded amused. "You belong to me now." 

_Belong to him?_

Even when Enjolras lived under his step-parents, he did not belong to them. The mere thought that a _person_ belonged to someone just because of the status they were born in… it disgusted him to even entertain such a notion. 

Throat tight, he held his head high as he declared, "I am a human being, fully deserving of rights despite my position, and I don't belong to anyone, least of all to _you."_ Turning his back on him, he focused on ignoring the way Tholomyes crept up close behind him, flexing his trembling fingers at his side. 

"Oh I do wish you would reconsider my offer," he breathed onto Enjolras' nape. He shuddered as he recalled the man's proposition. 

_Marry me and become a lord of my estate at my side, Enjolras. You would do so very well in keeping the place alive with that spirit of yours. I'd even let you go on about those childish notions you have about helping others of your class._

_Marry me._

Felix Tholomyes was a disgusting man, and his mere presence near Enjolras made his skin crawl. 

Gripping the table, he hissed, "I would rather rot." 

Behind him, Tholomyes took one step closer until his chest brushed against Enjolras' back. He swallowed back bile. 

"I had a horse like you once," Tholomyes mused. "A magnificent creature." His keys, including the one that would unlock the bindings around Enjolras' feet and spell his freedom, jangled loudly at his waist. In the bottom corner of his eye, Enjolras spotted a sword hanging off the man's belt loop next to the ring of keys, the dagger just in reach should Tholomyes take just one more step closer. 

He did, pressing his chest firmly against Enjolras' back, forcing a silent gag out of Enjolras' throat as he felt a hand clutch at his waist. "The horse was stubborn too, just like you." 

_The sword!_ his mind screamed to remind him of the blade so close in his reach as he resisted the urge to simply shove Tholomyes away and try escape unarmed again. Without drawing attention to himself, he began to inch his fingers back towards Tholomyes' belt loops. 

"Willful to a fault," Tholomyes continued. Nausea stirred in his stomach as he felt him nose along the curve of his neck. "It too, just needed to be," he breathed in deeply, "broken."

He felt cool metal brush the tips of his fingers.

Voice hard with loathing and disgust, but also conviction and command, he ordered, "You will maintain your distance, sir."

He closed his hand over the weapon and tightened his grip.

Behind him, Tholomyes tutted. "Oh but you didn't say please." With that statement, he pressed a wet kiss to the crook of Enjolras' neck. 

Pulling firmly on the weapon, he drew the sword free from where it had been hanging on Tholomyes' belt. Quick on his heel, he spun away from the revolting man and held the sword out at arm's distance, the tip pointing at Tholomyes' throat. 

"Please," he said mockingly, enjoying the sight of Tholomyes so shocked. He stumbled back, eyes widening for a moment before settling into a neutral expression. 

"I could have you hung for this," Tholomyes stated evenly. Enjolras smiled sharply.

"Not if you're dead." Advancing, he backed him up against a chair, though Tholomyes refused to sit. 

Tholomyes took a cautious step forward, halting when Enjolras pressed in the tip of his blade lightly where the man's chest was. He grinned.

"Boy, I certainly do… love your spirit." 

Enjolras felt himself pull forward as Tholomyes shot an arm out and wrapped a hand around his wrist, tugging him as he tried to press an unwelcome kiss to Enjolras' lips. Mustering all his strength, he shoved away, forcing Tholomyes back in his seat as he leapt forwards and slashed across his face. While Tholomyes cried out in pain and doubled over, he whirled around on his heel, snatching a second sword off the table and gripping it tight, a sword in each of his hands, both aiming for Tholomyes' heart, though the fire in his eyes seemed good enough to burn him anyways.

"My Father was an expert swordsman, Monsieur, and he taught me well," he warned, quiet yet fierce. "Now, hand me that key," he gestured to the bronze key hanging on his belt loops, "or I swear on my Father's grave I will slit you from navel," he began to draw up his swords aim up the middle of the man's body, "to nose."

Tholomyes stared on in shock, breathing heavy as Enjolras continued to hold his aim. At his hesitance, he began to drive the tip of the blade forward. Tholomyes yelped and fumbled for the key, drawing it free and holding it out with shaking fingers. 

Swallowing nervously, he declared, "Your freedom, Monsieur." 

________________________________________________________

Enjolras was confused for sure, but he was also buzzing with pure, unadulterated enthusiasm and excitement. Where would he go now that he was free to make his own path? He wasn't so sure; there weren't really many options for peasants to prosper other than try and find another, hopefully better feudal master to serve under. Perhaps he would simply return to his step parents' manor, now that it was almost guaranteed they would be moving out soon whenever Grant— _the Prince_ came to ask for Montparnasse's hand in marriage. Then, he would turn around his and his friends' lives for good.

As he walked out the gates of the Tholomyes estate, lost in his thoughts so deeply, he almost missed the familiar pair of rather shocked, green eyes standing outside the gates, clearly appearing to be looking for someone.

 _Almost_. Try as he had all that morning, Enjolras had not been able to get rid of the memory of those sparkling eyes that could hold every depth of emotion possible, from lighthearted teasing to intense passion.

Despite his best efforts and his constant denials, he still found himself affixed on those eyes, still so mesmerized by them. 

Which is why he tripped over himself when his own eyes clashed with Gran—the Prince's. 

The Prince rushed forwards, catching him around the waist and hauling him up against his chest. Enjolras clutched at the fabric beneath his fingers in an attempt to steady his spinning mind—and the fabric—what was the story behind it? He knew the monarchy never shied away from displays of luxury, but even now, the heavy threads of green and gold seemed a bit much. Had there been some occasion today?

What was Gran—the Prince of France doing here? He had clearly been looking for someone, but who was it? It had to be Felix Tholomyes, considering that it had only been him and Enjolras himself in the manor today, and it was quite obvious that after yesterday's display at the ball, Enjolras was the last person that he'd come in search of. But what possible business could he have with Tholomyes? 

Still lost in thought, he startled slightly when he heard the Prince murmur, "Hello."

Just as he was about to reply, he caught himself. This was the Prince of France. There was certain etiquette to have to follow, certain titles he'd need to use; the Prince had made that much clear last night. 

Swallowing nervously, he stuttered out, "Your Highness," the Prince grimaced visibly, "if I may ask," he winced once more, "but what are you doing here?" 

"Listen, can we please just… do away with the royal titles?" The Prince sighed. Enjolras frowned. 

"Sire, you are the Prince of France. To address you so informally would be improper," he said, throwing back the words he had given Enjolras just the night before. 

Okay. So maybe he was a little petty. And maybe he was still hurting. But only a little, that's all. It certainly was not the case that the sudden appearance of the Prince had ripped open old wounds in his heart that he thought mended with salve however weak while reigniting desires he previously believed deadened. It certainly wasn't the case that as hard as he had tried, the Prince still ruled in his heart without the chance of ever even trying to forget the memory of the Prince's words, his lips on his own, his hand on his, and him standing here right in front of him was both a hopeful candle in the dark and a dagger to the chest. It certainly wasn't the case that where he had felt numb this morning, even the Prince's simple arm around his waist felt as if it were burning his flesh through his clothes. 

It certainly wasn't the case that Enjolras had long ago fallen for the Prince. Trying to forget and deny that love last night after the ball, only to figure out that his unrequited love would never truly go away, that he would always love the Prince, and yet feel the fresh sting of heartbreak every time he would likely hear chatter about the Prince's latest night out with his step brother—was too much to bear.

It certainly wasn't the case that as Enjolras stood, held in Grantaire's arms, he felt his desires and love stir once more, love for a man who obviously had no love for him.

Although, that certainly does pose the question as to why the Prince was insisting he abandon royal titles in his address towards him, and why he still hadn't let go of Enjolras yet; quite on the contrary, he tightened his arm and drew him closer. 

"I may be the Prince of France to everyone else, but to you I'm just Grantaire. Surely you know that, right?" 

Enjolras knew he shouldn't be pushing. This was the Prince of France he was talking to—and yet the words were out faster from his mouth than he could think. 

"That's not what you seemed to think last night, Sire." The words hadn't meant to come out so cold, but with everything that had happened, he wasn't sure if he really cared all too much. 

The Prince flinched this time. "I know. I know, my Love." 

_My Love._ The Prince's favoured name for him. _My Love._ How much love did he show him last night? How much love did he show when he finally learned of who he was? How much love did he show as he allowed himself to break down in front of the entire royal court? 

He wasn't the Prince's love and never would be; that much was made clear yesterday. He had already been told his love would not be reciprocated. Must the Prince really come so far as to mock him for it again and again, obviously knowing that the love which he had planted in his heart would still hurt at such cruel behaviour? He had had enough.

Twisting out of his grasp, he hissed, "I am not your Love, nor will I ever be. You made yourself clear as glass last night, Sire. Were my tears not enough for you, or would you have me swear an oath I would not approach you again?"

Hurt flashed in the Prince’s eye before he reached out an arm; Enjolras pulled away. Yes, this man was the Prince of France, and could possibly do as he pleased—mock him, tease him, break him. Yet, Enjolras couldn’t help but think, up until the point where he had revealed who he was, the Prince had proven himself at least respectful; if he had even the slightest bit of respect, then why couldn’t he just leave him alone? Was it really necessary that he watch his heart break all over again? Did he really take such cruel pleasure?

“No, please, listen to me—”

“Why?” he cried, horrified at the tears that he could feel gathering in his eyes. “Why should I listen? That’s all I wanted from you yesterday—to just take a second and _listen,_ and yet you couldn’t even do that much for a common peasant—because I’m below you,” he spat venomously. “If conversing with peasants was so below you, Sire, then I fail to see why you’re doing so now,” he said cold. Swiping angrily at a tear, he started off walking, calling behind him, “If you were looking for Monsieur Tholomyes, he is currently free inside the manor.”

A tug at his elbow had him spinning fast on his heel as the Prince pulled him against his chest, eyes blazing. “I didn’t come for Tholomyes.”

“Then why are you here—”

“I came looking for you.”

 _Come looking for me?_ Why would the Prince come looking for him? What could he possibly want from him now?

“Looking for _me?_ A _commoner?”_ he asked mockingly. “Why? What could you possibly want to tell me now?”

“That I’m sorry.”

The words were quiet, yet the solemn conviction behind them stunned Enjolras into momentary silence. 

Sorry? The Prince was… sorry? About what? About giving him false hopes and false love?

Or—and he dared not dwell on it for more than a couple quick seconds—perhaps… sorry about yesterday?

No.

That wasn’t possible. 

Schooling his face into a neutral expression, he monotonously asked, “Sorry about what?”

“I think you know what it’s about.”

“I really don’t Sire, and if you don’t care to tell me, I have quite a bit of work to get done, and a road ahead to trek.”

“Please, just,” with his free hand, the Prince rubbed at his temple, sighing before gazing earnestly into Enjolras’ eyes, “listen to what I have to say. I know I should have listened to you yesterday. I have no excuse, no justification. I have hurt you beyond compare.” He ran a hair through his unruly curls. “Whether or not you choose to accept me after this, I need you to know one thing: it wasn’t because you’re a servant.” 

His confession left Enjolras reeling. His rejection—he didn’t turn him away because he was a peasant? But what other reason could he have had? 

He was mocking him even now. He was lying. He wanted to give him hope and then watch the light die away in his eyes. That’s all it was, wasn’t it?

He clenched his jaw. “You’re lying.”

The Prince shook his head. “You may hate me if you so please for what I did yesterday, I will accept even that, but I cannot allow you to walk away from here believing in a lie. I cannot allow you to go on thinking I thought you unworthy of my love because of your status. It is not true. And I need to hear you say you believe it. You believe in so much, surely you can believe in this too. Please,” he begged. 

Enjolras swallowed and thought his truth over. How could he believe it? There was no other reason for him to have turned away like that. 

"Then why?" he demanded. "Why did you turn me away like that? Why would you tell me to—" he struggled to get his words out past the growing lump in his throat, "—to address you as a Prince? Why would you lie and say you lied when you said you'd love me as a peasant?"

The Prince took a breath. "I was… I was scared," he admitted. He tightened his arm around Enjolras' waist as he explained, "When you came to the ball and told me that you were not the Comte Alexandre Lamarque, I was shocked, but also scared. Your name—your identity—the only name I knew you by—had turned out to be fake, and my mind started running off. I thought to myself, if your name had been a mere façade, who was to say that your love for me wasn't fake too?

"I felt as if I barely knew who you were. The thought that the feelings that you inspired in me—love, the courage to cautiously believe again—were all part of an act frightened me—and I took that fear out in the worst possible way—by acting out in anger, especially to the man I love." He grasped at both of Enjolras' hands and placed lingering kisses on the knuckles. "I cannot bear to live without you," he murmured in between gentle kisses. "The idea that you had stolen my heart while never giving me your own left me reeling. I could not bear the agony of such a nightmarish future without realizing I was setting it up for myself. You did not deserve the insult to your person, to your fidelity, to your extraordinary levels of trust, and to your belief in all things good. I am sorry."

Enjolras was quite sure that if Grantaire hadn't been there holding him, he would have collapsed on the ground from the way his knees were weak and shaking. Grantaire didn't believe he or his ideals were worthless. Grantaire didn't believe him lower because he was a servant. Grantaire still loved him, even as he was him, and not a Comte. It was true then; he had come looking for him.

Still, one thing did not seem right… 

"How could you doubt my love, Grantaire?" he asked quietly. At the mention of his name without any sort of titles or ceremony, he looked up with widened eyes before pressing the longest yet kiss on his right hand. "I attended the ball against my step parents' wishes, risking and receiving punishment—" Grantaire flinched, "—all to try and tell you who I am. Is that not proof enough of the love I hold for you?"

Grantaire sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I've been made to see that sense recently," he muttered. Gazing back into his eyes, he said, "It was proof enough of your love. I was simply too blind to see it."

"And how did you find your way back if you were blind?" Enjolras whispered. Grantaire smiled mischievously. 

"Nobody loves the light like the blind man. And you, my Love," he traced a finger down his cheek and tilted his chin up, "are the Sun on Earth." Enjolras closed his eyes as he felt Grantaire lean closer. "I have never felt such passion in anything as I have when I have been in your presence," he whispered. "With as much faith that you have that someday the people will rise and declare themselves equal on all standings, I believe myself to have fallen in love with you, Enjolras." 

And feeling himself drawn closer, he gasped as he felt Grantaire bend and capture his lips, kissing with a hunger that he made it seems as if he were a starving man who had been offered a feast. It was a tangle of teeth, tongues, and lips as he reached up and tugged on Grantaire's collar, pulling him ever closer. In response, the arms around his waist curled tighter. He moaned, drawing a growl from Grantaire's throat as he pushed him back against the solid gate. When his back hit the wood, he pulled away, gasping. 

"Say it again," he requested breathlessly. 

Grantaire looked at him solemnly. "I love you." 

"No, not that." He paused. "Well actually, yes that too, but I meant the part where you said my name."

"Enjolras," he repeated, his name falling from his lips like a vow. He trailed his lips, hot and blazing, down the length of his neck. "Enjolras Enjolras Enjolras."

He clutched at the fabric beneath his fingers. "Grantaire— _Grantaire."_

Grantaire pulled back, a look of wonder in his eyes as he allowed himself to completely drink in the sight of Enjolras standing in front of him, eliciting a light blush from the shorter man. 

Enjolras watched, confused as Grantaire began to rummage through the inside of his coat. "I'm afraid that I still have not completed my job here, and I find myself in need of your help to get it done." Enjolras could not do anything other than nod his head, still unaware of what was going on. "You see, I have found myself in possession of a rather remarkable shoe—not mine—and I was hoping you would help me find the owner of it?" 

And then Enjolras sucked in a sharp breath. For from his heavy coat, Grantaire drew out a beautiful, sleek white boot, the one belonging to Enjolras' Father, the one he thought he had left behind. 

"Where did you find that?" he breathed.

"He is my match in every single way. Please tell me I haven't lost him."

Throwing his arms around his neck, he exclaimed a steady stream of _I'm yours I'm yours I'm yours_ under his breath as Grantaire laughed breathlessly. When they both pulled back, Grantaire cupped his cheek gently. 

"I once told you that I was looking for a consort who would rule France by my side with flaming passion and strong conviction—someone who _cared,_ and would lead change in the kingdom for better. As brilliant as you are in other matters, it seemed to delude you as to what circumstances I was dealing with and whose eyes I was gazing into when I said that."

Enjolras' heartbeat raced in his chest. He couldn't be suggesting… 

"Enjolras you are fire, fierce and wild and strong. You are passion, you are faith. I can only ever imagine France prospering if done under your rule." Dropping to one knee, he gently took hold of Enjolras' right foot, removing his worn-out shoe, "I kneel before you now as one common man to another, but I would feel a King if you married me and became my Prince Consort." In place of his shoe, Grantaire slipped onto his foot his Papa's boot.

Enjolras wondered if his stream of exclaimed _I love you_ s was answer enough. Judging by the way Grantaire had picked him up and spun him high in the air, he supposed it sufficed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost done here people!! 
> 
> Thanks for reading this week! See you next Saturday!
> 
> TALK TO ME... DROP A COMMENT... I CRAVE INTERACTION...
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A royal wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> OMG you guys this is it. This is it, are you ready?
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

Eponine had to admit, she had never felt as popular within her family as she felt now, and it was all the more amusing knowing something they didn't as they peppered her with question after question at the lunch table.

"How was I supposed to know that he'd run out the side door? He was supposed to be getting married."

"I heard the Prince spoke to you," Montparnasse said. He paused to frown at the lack of salt on the table, knowing that he'd have to walk up and retrieve it himself if he wanted more, seeing as to how all the servants had mysteriously disappeared at midday. Eponine had too, but made a hasty return within a few hours, and her disappearances were rather normal, so it wasn't as if it had been a surprise. It was the servants her parents were mad about. They had been gone for hours now.

'Mysteriously' disappeared. Eponine knew better. 

"What did he say?" her brother demanded.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Well I can't really be sure. But it was something along the lines of _serves me right for choosing a foreigner over your brother_."

Her brother and her Mother both smiled knowingly at each other, but Eponine was quite sure that if there was anyone who would be having the last laugh, it would not be them.

"Very good then," her Father said. "We'll just let him fret over it for a few days."

Just as Eponine had begun to wonder what was taking so long, the doorbell finally rang. 

"I'LL GET IT!" They all jumped out their seats and scrambled to the door, her Father ripping it open.

On the other end stood Captain Javert.

Eponine shuddered. The man may be on their side, but he still gave her chills when he set his wolf-like eyes on her. 

"His Supreme Majesty King Francis requests an immediate audience with the Thenardier family immediately."

Her Father nodded. "We are all but humble slaves to His Supreme Majesty," he remarked dramatically. Eponine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Just a little while more of this, and then it would be over. "Is something of the matter?" 

Javert smiled sharp as a dagger. "No, Monsieur. In fact, he demanded you all arrive in style. And that your daughter come early to the Court right now. The rest of you may be allowed the time to dress appropriately."

Her Father waved off any concern about his daughter. "Yes yes, she may leave. But us… arrive in style we shall!"

As Eponine mounted the carriage, she finally let herself burst into laughter.

________________________________________________________

Stood beside his Mother and Father's thrones, Grantaire watched on coldly as the Thenardier family, Eponine exempt, all swished into the castle, their heavy, rich fabrics sweeping the floor in an unnecessary display of wealth and opulence.

Wealth and opulence made off the hard labour of their serfs, Enjolras in particular. 

He hated their sight. 

With deep curtsies, the three all smiled saccharine-sweetly at the royals in front of them, no doubt trying to set a nice impression in front of them and the large crowd of nobles—and peasants—gathered inside.

They ruined that chance when Grantaire watched as they raised a hand on Enjolras the night before at the ball. 

"Comte," his Father nodded towards Comte Thenardier, "Comtesse," he nodded towards his wife. The two smiled excitedly at having been addressed. 

His Father's tone turned cold. "Did you, or did you not lie to Her Majesty the Queen of France?"

With a small dash of victory, Grantaire was pleased to watch the shock spell out on the three's faces. 

“Choose your words wisely, Monsieur, Madame, for they may be your last,” his Mother warned when neither of the parents had yet answered.

“L—lie?” the Comte stuttered, confused. His Mother turned her attention to the Comte’s wife. 

“Comtesse Thenardier,” she started, “had earlier lied to me that Enjolras—under the name the Comte Alexandre Lamarque—had set off to marry, having been engaged to a Belgian. From what we had seen last night, it seems quite clear that was not the case.”

The Comtesse laughed weakly. “A parent would do anything for their children, Your Majesties—”

“Including lying to your stepson about his birth title?” he interrupted. The Comtesse turned her eyes to look at Grantaire. 

The Comte raised his eyebrows. “Lie? About Enjolras’ birth title?”

“Comte, you are of the nobility, with children of your own. Surely you are aware of the inheritance system?” Grantaire asked coldly. “Children born of the nobility are nobles themselves, and upon the death of their Mother or Father, immediately inherit their title.” He turned dangerous eyes upon the Comte and Comtesse who stood pale before him. “Enjolras’ Father was the Comte Alexandre Lamarque, and it seems you’ve forgotten to mention that with his death, Enjolras himself became a Comte, and the lands of your manor all belong to him.”

“Well… perhaps we did get a little carried away… and yes… now that I think of it…” the Comtesse continued to try and weakly defend their position. As if there was anything justifiable about their actions, their continued treachery, their lies and deceits and wickedness. 

Behind the two, Montparnasse let out an exaggerated gasp and jumped back away from his parents. “Mother, Father, what have you done?” he exclaimed. Turning towards him and his parents, he explained, “Your Majesty, like you, I am just a victim here. These two have lied to all of us, and I am ashamed to call them family!”

Grantaire subtly rolled his eyes. 

The Comte’s face coloured with rage. “How dare you turn on us? You ingrate!”

Montparnasse turned back to him frantically. “You see what I have to deal with?” 

_What you had to deal with? You didn’t seem to have to deal with much last time I saw you._

“Silence!” his Father boomed, effectively cutting off the squabbling family. He watched amusedly as his Father rubbed at his temples and asked, “Good Lord, are they always like this?” 

From the front row on the right of the aisle where she sat with the rest of Enjolras’ friends, Eponine piped up, “Worse, Your Majesty.”

The Comte turned his seething eyes upon his daughter. “Eponine! Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with this!”

Eponine cocked her head, eyes glittering. “Of course not, Father,” she said innocently. “How could I have? I’m just another one of your servants, rubbing hands with the dirt of society. How could I have the power to do anything?” 

Grantaire smiled. He knew he always liked that girl.

The Comte’s face contorted with rage. He opened his mouth, clearly ready to spew verbal abuse when his Mother held up a hand and sat forward, a quiet symbol of cold authority. 

“Comte and Comtesse of the House of Thenardier, you are forthwith stripped of your titles,” she announced. The two gawked. “You and your horrible son are to be shipped to the Americas on the first boat.” At this, the blood in Montparnasse’s face drained leaving behind a ghost of a complexion. 

The Comte and Comtesse glanced at each other, and Grantaire knew exactly that this was when the begging and crying would start, but with another hand, his Mother effectively halted any action. 

“That is,” she continued, “unless someone here will speak for you.” 

The throne room remained, as expected, dead silent. Well, except for the quiet sounds of his friends all sitting on the left side of the aisle, shaking as they tried to silence their laughter at the scene in front of them.

Just as his Father was about to call for the guards and have them escort the three out of the castle, a voice from Grantaire’s left spoke up, leaving Grantaire slightly confused, but in all honesty, not too surprised. 

“I will speak for them.” Enjolras walked inside from the left entrance to stand by Grantaire’s side, powerful in his royal clothing still worn from the wedding. At his appearance, and seemingly having judged correctly about what Enjolras was based on what he now wore, particularly on what rested atop his golden hair, the Comte and Comtesse both sank into careful bows. 

“Your Highness,” they both murmured. Montparnasse stood stock still, shocked no doubt at Enjolras’ appearance and his parents’ reaction. Grantaire allowed a smug grin on his face as he reached out and lifted one of Enjolras’ hands to his lips, adoring the eyeroll sent his way, though he thought that the smile Enjolras wore kind of clashed with it. 

Turning back, he said with a raised eyebrow, “Montparnasse, I don’t believe you’ve met my husband.”

________________________________________________________

Outwardly, he rolled his eyes when Grantaire pressed yet another kiss to the back of his hand, yet inwardly he couldn’t help but think he would never get tired of being kissed so, and the sentiment probably leaked out considering he couldn’t tamp down that stupid smile of his. 

Enjolras didn’t believe anyone should ever bow to another. Everyone, despite who they were, had dignity and respect, and was neither above nor below anyone else, which is why he had warned his friends and Grantaire’s not to bow when he appeared before them having completed his marriage vows and being declared married to the Prince of France.

Well, Grantaire. Because now he too was the Prince of France, and it would be quite confusing to continue to address Grantaire that way if he was the same thing he called him. 

So when he saw his step-parents sink to their knees in front of him, despite all the pain they had caused him, he couldn’t help but jerk his head and urge them up back to their feet. He would not have them kneel in front of him. 

“Montparnasse, I don’t believe you’ve met my husband.” 

Enjolras felt his heart thrill at Grantaire’s words. 

He was his husband. 

Grantaire _married_ him. Grantaire called him his _husband_ . In front of _everyone_.

This common servant did have a voice after all then, and it would not be silenced. Enjolras was someone; he had worth, he had the capability to inspire and enact change—and he would be damned if he didn’t use that voice. 

Turning back to the three standing in his presence, he repeated once more, “I will speak for them. They are, after all, my step family.” Leaping off the raised platform, he walked up and stood tall, face-to-face, this time without bowing or cowering or averting his eyes, with his step-father and step-mother. 

How many years had he served under his step-parents? How many years had Enjolras bowed his head, averted his eyes, shrunk away? How many years did Enjolras quietly labour away at the cost of his own health, objecting only when one of his friends faced injustice? How many years did he hide away scars and bruises and blood, flinch at the smallest sign of either lifting their hand, panic when any raised their voice?

Enjolras had heard so many preachers and priests and bishops all give him the same message: _forgive and move on. Bigger is he who has the heart to forgive than the one who apologizes._

_Forgive and move on._

Enjolras looked at his step-parents. In front of the King and Queen, they were all tears and repentance, and yet, Enjolras knew full well that were he to still be their servant, there would be no remorse in those eyes. 

They weren’t sorry. And even if they were, Enjolras was under no obligation to forgive them. Not after the lifetime of hurt they caused him. 

Was he being petty?

No. Because no one is under the obligation of forgiving their abuser. 

He would not forgive. But he _would_ move on. 

“I want you to know that I will forget about you two after this moment,” he said quietly. Behind his step-parents, Montparnasse looked up and frowned, having noticed he hadn’t been mentioned. “I will never think of you again—and never have the opportunity to do so once your boat finally docks in the New World. However,” he raised his voice and addressed the rest of the crowd, a mixture of both nobles and—to his immense satisfaction—commoners too. "I will not have Montparnasse punished so severely." He turned his eyes on the man who had never in the ten years he had known him treated him like a brother, like an equal, only a servant beneath him to treat like dirt. He looked upon the man who had burnt away his Papa's book, what had been his most prized possession. At times he felt as if his rage would consume him whole, and thought he should ship him off to the Americas and be done with it. But then he thought of Eponine, the daughter of the Thenardiers who, despite holding an immense amount of power over him, had treated him with kindness and dignity and respect. Eponine—who was so much more than the daughter of the Thenardiers. Who grew up in a system where it seemed his abuse was normal and fine, but still defended him from it. Eponine, his step-sister who he loved because she had correctly distinguished between right and wrong despite living in a household that twisted the two, and had stuck to what was right no matter what temptation.

If one Thenardier child was able to grow like that, if just removed from the treacherous shade of his parents, why couldn't the other do too?

“I do not truly believe he has in his heart such wickedness. Perhaps he simply needs time to unlearn the treachery that had been instilled in him since birth.”

Grantaire wrapped his arms around him from behind and hooked his chin on his shoulder. “And what shall you have done to him so that he may change, my Love?” 

Enjolras smiled. “Nothing better to build both one’s moral and physical strength than labour," he recited, almost in a mocking sort of tone, words stemming from memories of the excuses his step-parents would give when they first forced upon him his chores. Turning towards the King and Queen— _his Father and Mother in law_ —he politely asked, “I request that he be given a position as one of the castle servants, perhaps in the kitchens or laundries, it matters not to me.”

His step-brother looked at him confusedly, as if unable to understand why Enjolras had made his decision. 

But Enjolras didn’t really care if he understood or not. He was done with his step family once and for all. Maybe he would see Montparnasse around in the castle, and even then he would not have him bow, but it would be different. As of now, turning his back to head back up the raised stage, he cut off his ties. As of now, his step-parents were nothing to him, and Montparnasse was just another man in the castle. Enjolras had a family, one made of all the people sitting to the right of the aisle, who had raised him in so many more ways than the Thenardiers ever did, all now given titles of nobility (even Pere Valjean, who tried to protest heavily against it) now that Enjolras himself had become the Prince Consort of France, (although, while he was happy for her, judging by the way Cosette and Grantaire’s friend—the Baron Pontmercy—were seemingly always hovering around each other, he supposed that even if he didn’t give her a noble title, she would have ended up a Baroness anyways in a few weeks.) And his family grew even larger! Now he had a Mother and Father in law who actually seemed to like him, and even took to listening about Enjolras’ thoughts on allowing better rights for peasants, and readdressing the dynamic between serfs and feudal lords. Of course, there was also Grantaire’s friends who he had been introduced to at the ball, who Enjolras found he took an instant liking to; they were a vibrant group, full of spirit, and he had no doubt that they would be able to help him adjust to day-to-day life in the castle and mix well with his own friends. In that group of friends, Enjolras found he took quite a liking to da Vinci’s apprentice, Combeferre, who had escorted him to the ball, given him the courage to attend. Or, well, at least _former_ apprentice. He had told them earlier that he had elected to choose to remain in France and study medicine and anatomy much more in depth at the academy Grantaire would have built, perhaps even teach there. 

And of course, there was Grantaire too. His husband, his love, his life. Grantaire, with whom he would build his life. 

Enjolras had his sights set firmly on the future he was building, and that future did include Grantaire, the Prince of France, to whom Enjolras meant something, meant love and passion and rules worth breaking. Enjolras had a future, and it would _not_ be complete if he stayed put in “his place” and didn’t use his voice to speak up for better.

Enjolras had a future, and it was one where he had found everlasting love, from his husband, from his friends, from the people he called his family. 

As he stepped out the throne room and felt a hand close around his wrist, tugging him close to Grantaire, who stood hidden in a corner, waiting to steal a kiss, he couldn’t help but think, perhaps it wasn’t so bad to let your heart think instead of your head.

It seems love between a servant and a Prince, as they talk about in the fairytales so often, is possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! We're almost done! I've uploaded the epilogue right now as well, now go read that!
> 
> -A


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, an epilogue :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, story line, or half the dialogue. All characters belong to Les Miserables, and the story line and half of the dialogue belongs to Ever After: A Cinderella Story.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A

“Was there any special reason as to why the others weren’t allowed to come in with us? I thought you said the painting would be unveiled and put in a public gallery anyways?”

“I wanted you to be the first one to see it. And before you ask—yes, the peasantry will be allowed to see it, too.”

Enjolras strained against the red material of the blindfold. He was so very happy for Grantaire, he really was. He knew about his passion for painting, and he had been particularly excited to tell Enjolras that he had decided to put this new one up for display. However, he maybe could have done without the whole mystery element; he had been blindfolded since sunrise as Grantaire ran around supposedly having the gallery room emptied, tidied, and prepared. 

Enjolras hummed. “I’m happy for you. Maybe you’ll be known in the future as the ‘Painting Prince.’” He gripped tighter onto Grantaire’s shirt as he felt Grantaire start to ascend a flight of stairs. In all honesty, he probably could have still walked with a little bit of guidance, but was it really his fault if he perhaps, maybe, secretly, had a desire to let Grantaire do the work instead and carry him like he did in the forest? Could he really be blamed if he demanded he carry him because his legs had fallen asleep after being made to sit around for so long? Anyways, Grantaire didn’t seem to mind. 

“If I am to be known as the ‘Painting Prince,’ what shall they call you, my Love?” Grantaire’s voice came from above, amused. 

“I don’t really know. Will they even remember a Prince Consort?” he mused thoughtfully.

Grantaire held him closer. “I shall make it so they never forget.”

Left to wonder what he meant, he let out a yelp as he felt himself suddenly righted and set on his feet. Behind him, Grantaire worked the knots off his blindfold. 

“You can look now.”

Enjolras grumbled. “Well thank you for granting me sight once more Your Supreme Majesty—” he cut himself off. 

The nights before, he had made Grantaire show him all the paintings he had ever worked on, and though Grantaire had insisted they weren’t very good, Enjolras had certainly begged to differ. This whole gallery was Enjolras’ idea, actually; Grantaire’s art was beyond beautiful, and he thought that to deprive the people—especially the common people who could use whatever little beauty they could find in their lives—of such a wonder would be unfair, to both them and Grantaire. Thus, the gallery was born, a gallery dedicated to the art of the ‘Painting Prince’ who allowed anyone to enjoy art, despite what they were born as. 

To think that the painting before him was now hanging, larger than any of the others, in the same gallery, would be displayed to the general public, left him breathless. 

Stepping up closer, he traced a careful finger over the bold paint, feeling over brush strokes that drew a picture of fiery eyes, a man standing proud and tall with conviction and firm faith in his being. 

From behind him, Grantaire wrapped his arms around his middle and drew him close. “Do you like it?” he murmured. Enjolras nodded, unable to form much coherent thought. 

“Grantaire it’s… it’s wonderful…” he replied breathlessly. “When did you even have time to paint it?” 

He felt a light kiss on the crook of his neck. “I did it after you freed Pere Valjean from Cartier’s voyage. I could not leave a memory burning so bright in my mind for fear of melting before its radiance. Now all can bask in the fiery heat of your conviction and faith.”

Enjolras turned in his arms. “You really love me so?” he asked in amazement.

“More than can be expressed in words,” he said with a ridiculous wink. Enjolras laughed. 

“You’re spending much too much time with Jehan.”

“Oh, that wasn’t just Jehan. I’m afraid if Jehan and Marius spend any more time together, we shall each have to contend with fully fledged romantics constantly spewing poems of love and romance.”

“By the way Cosette and Marius have taken to each other, I doubt that many of those love poems will be directed towards any of us.”

“We’ll just have to make our own then, though I once heard someone say that actions speak louder than words.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Really? Why don’t you show me how that works, then.” 

Grantaire pulled him in close by the waist. “Gladly.”

Closing his eyes, he leaned up and—

“But spying on them seems just the slightest bit wrong though.”

“Shut up, Pontmercy, don’t be a spoilsport.”

Opening his eyes, he broke away as both he and Grantaire looked to the left where a window hung, where sunlight would have been streaming in if it weren’t for the ten individuals who obviously didn’t understand the concept of privacy trying to strain and watch him and Grantaire.

At their flat stares, Bahorel glared at Courfeyrac. “Say that a bit louder, Courfeyrac, now that you’ve got their attention.” 

Courfeyrac huffed. “I wouldn’t have said anything if Marius didn’t feel the need to act so stupid.”

“Hey! Just because I respect other people’s right to privacy does not make me stupid!”

As Courfeyrac and Marius continued to squabble, Cosette gave them an innocent look and waved with her hand. “Please, continue. We’re not even really here.” 

Grantaire strolled up to the window and drew the curtains closed, evoking cries of protest from their nosy friends. “Nope. Not now.”

Unable to tamp down his smile, Enjolras walked up beside him and traced a hand over the curtains. “Can you really hold them to fault? They simply want to see love play out.” 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Well I guess they’ll have to find their own happily ever afters if they want that.”

“‘Happily ever after?’” he repeated amusedly. “I thought you didn’t believe in such things.” He wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s neck. 

“I didn’t believe in anything before I met you. Now, I believe I’m much more inclined to have faith, but only if you’re here with me.”

“I’ll always be with you,” he breathed, shutting his eyes. “I will never have you abandon faith.” 

Grantaire splayed his hands on his waist and pulled him close. “Aren’t you usually supposed to seal such vows with a kiss?” he inquired innocently. 

“I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Well then perhaps we should make it a tradition," Grantaire suggested, tugging on Enjolras firmly upwards as he himself leaned down.

When their lips finally met, Enjolras discovered the one thing he had had trouble believing in during his years of life so far, love, indeed existed, and that it seemed he too was destined to live with it. 

What a story he had lived. _The Prince and the Servant._

When he asked Grantaire what he would name the painting, Grantaire thought for a moment before replying. 

_The People’s Prince._

THE END. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happily ever after :)
> 
> That's it! That's a wrap for this story! Thank you SO much to those who have left kudos, ESPECIALLY to those who have left me comments-- they really kept me encouraged and I swear seeing them always put the biggest smile on my face, I really appreciate you people-- and to everyone who even decided to click on the story and give it a chance. This was probably my favourite fic to write, and I loved hearing back from you all about how you liked it. 
> 
> Come say hello on my tumblr @barricadebops. I'm always taking prompts :)
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> -A

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there we go. The prologue! Updates will be every Saturday. Thanks for reading!
> 
> I have a Tumblr! Come say hi and drop a follow @at-the-barricades-of-stupidity.
> 
> Happy reading!
> 
> -A
> 
> UPDATE: 19/12/2020: my tumblr url is now @barricadebops :)


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